


Survival Mode

by SingleWhiteCatLady



Category: Mad Max: Fury Road
Genre: F/F, F/M, Furiosa is a trucker, Furiosa pegs her boss for a while, Gen, I don't even know!, I met you in an MMORPG AU, I take things too far, M/M, Max is colorblind, Online Romance, Slit does parkour, The Dag is asexual, Trans Character, game glitches, more tags to be added later, really i do, talk of eating disorders, talk of unsafe eating habits, talk of violence against girl gamers, there is Skype
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-15 21:21:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 51,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5800594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SingleWhiteCatLady/pseuds/SingleWhiteCatLady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[Survival Mode.]<br/>[Scavenger Mode.]</p><p>Max moves his finger on the touch pad.</p><p>“How much ammo do you have?” The kid says, something like sick glee in his voice.</p><p>Max hesitates, “Nine rounds.”</p><p>The kid giggles; “You’re gonna die!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Shiny and Chrome

**Author's Note:**

> Okay... Yeah. I have no excuses. Just enjoy  
> 0-0-0
> 
> Here is the Prompt;  
> http://madmaxkink.dreamwidth.org/1730.html?thread=1245122#cmt1245122
> 
> This is my fill.

** MAX **

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

The home page looks kind of cheap. A gif of some smoking volcanic crater at night with a cross in the middle distance, silhouetted against the firelight. There are ambiance sounds underlain with robust heavy-metal guitar music, like someone’s playing death jams in the distance. The rest of the noise is like car engines revving, tools clanking, your stereotypical ominous orchestral piece and every so many seconds the guitar is replaced by men’s voices chanting in a zealous rage; “VEE-EIGHT! VEE-EIGHT! VEE-EIGHT!” Then suddenly a pair of headlights blaze in the blackness at the bottom of the crater gif, and a monster of a car whose front grille is emblazoned with a grinning skull in crosshairs chromed until it seems almost unrealistic, zooms straight at the viewer and into blackness. The sound cuts out to a low rising tone like something from War of the Worlds and the title fades in like smoke. WASTELAND. And cut to blackness. Then the loop resets and it starts all over again.

 

“It’s fantastic, you’ll love it!” Jim slaps him on the shoulder and bends forward to rifle through the mug of pens by the edge of the keyboard.

 

“Do you play it?”

 

“What? Me? No, no—You see, I like REAL people. You remember real people, don’t you?”

 

Someone by door laughs quietly.

 

“There’s this new invention called a club! People—Real people, I mean—go there and have drinks, and dance and hook up.”

 

He grunts

 

“But for hermits and tech nerds and single-types with no game, there’s things like this! They’re just as good, if not better for shy types like yourself!”

 

Max isn’t necessarily convinced. “I have game.”

 

Jim pats his shoulder. “Playstation doesn’t count, mate.”

 

Max scowls at his retreating back; “It’s Xbox.”

 

Jim flaps a finger at him with his face curled up as if to say ‘well fuck me’, and pours himself a cup of coffee.

 

Max turns back to his computer. “I like games, just…” He hums, searching for the word, “Not ones that involve other people,” He’s played games like this before, living alone kind of doesn’t give him a choice. It’s either find a way to kill the time he’s not on duty, or actually go out and, god forbid, meet people. But, most of the games he’s played you don’t have to actually interact with anybody else to play them. He likes his Xbox, and the Sega Genesis he’s got in a crate in the hall closet is still playable. Even if he does have to drag that giant TV out as well. The one that’s become more of a door stop than an appliance.

 

Hell, he even has a few first person shooter games he plays on his laptop. And there’s even a game on his phone.

 

That one has cats.

 

Lots of cats.

 

Max stares at the Wasteland home page with his nose wrinkled warily. “What does that mean?” He motions to the script below the image, microscopic. It’s not that he doesn’t understand it, more as it’s so small he can’t see it.

 

Jim appears again, leans over his shoulder with half a sandwich between his teeth and a steaming mug of coffee in the other. He motions with the nail of his middle finger then removes his sandwich so he can speak; “Massively Multiplayer Online Roleplay Game… Says you must be sixteen years or older to register, have a valid email address… It’s easy, look— even Morsov plays it! He raves about it, don’t you Morsov!”

 

“Mhmm,” Morsov has his nose in a case folder and is barely conscious considering he’s only had one coffee yet.

 

“Tell him about the action figures!”

 

“Hmm?” Morsov looks up, eyes dull, “Say it again?”

 

“The game!” Jim motions with the flats of both hands to Max’s computer; “The Wasteland game! That mad game you’re playing that keeps you up at night!”

 

Morsov nods and meets Max’s indirect gaze; “’s a good game.”

 

Max grunts and watches the opening gif cycle through again.

 

“Hopeless! You’re all hopeless!” Jim throws up his hands and stalks away.

 

“Is a good game,” Morsov says eyes back on his work; “Kind of a mix of sandbox and FPS… Asides though, you can download this app and take your picture and upload it into the game and REALLY customize your character. It’s great!” Morsov has his phone out and is showing Max his ‘War Boy’.

 

Yeah, alright, the face is Morsov’s face, but the body is too muscular and pale and covered in ritualistic scars.

 

“You can have your character three-dee printed as an action figure too!” His eyes are a little more awake than they were moments ago; “It’s ‘spensive, of course… But it was a great birthday present for my sister’s boy. Got him a set—see?” There’s his phone again. “Kid’s obsessed with it!”

 

Max looks because Morsov is insistent and practically leaning over his desk to shove the device into Max’s face. There’s a large burly ‘War Boy’ with an oxygen tank and some kind of mask thing on the lower half of his face… A face that is obviously his fourteen-year-old nephew’s and looks kind of out of place on such a giant mound of a man. There is a truck as well. Something with gigantic wheels in a gaudy silver with skulls and flame throwers and guns all over it. Max thinks it’s kind of over the top, truthfully. He’s seen Morsov’s nephew. Kid’s five-nothing with pimples and glasses. Hasn’t grown into his feet yet. He bobs his eyebrows toward his hairline in faux interest and Morsov settles back into his seat.

 

Max yawns into his fist and watches the gif run through again, becoming less enchanted with it by the second. He checks the clock, sees the time click over to six AM and with a sigh closes the web page. There’s work to do.

 

He doesn’t think about the game again for almost two weeks, not until he’s home off his last shift, two days off ahead of him, and shuffling out into his miniscule yard in shorts and a tee with a mug of coffee in one hand and his laptop in the other. It’s four in the evening and he’s been awake since three PM the day before, but if he goes to bed now he’ll be awake at midnight and it’ll throw off his sleeping patterns for the shift change. 

 

Besides, his neighbor has no password security on his wifi and it’s too hot to be inside.

 

There’s a lizard on the overturned crate Max uses as a lawn table and he shoos it away with a bare foot and a hiss before he drops into his chair in the shade of the woman next door’s shed. Thankfully there are no snakes, spiders, or ants back there this time, so he doesn’t have to break out the hose.

 

His neighbor is outside as well, Max can see him through the gaps in the fence. Neighbor is a young man, younger than Max by a good twelve years. Brown hair and a too wide grin. He’s lounging in an inflatable kid’s pool under the shade of an oversized tan umbrella, drinking beers and clicking at something furiously on a game controller. “DIE YOU BITCH!” The kid mutters viciously.

 

Max lowers his brows and watches the kid’s arms moving, the scrunch of his tattoos and flick of water droplets as he wiggles around. Max thinks his name is Marcus.

 

“Two-o-clock!” The kid, whose name may or may not be Marcus says, nudging his microphone closer to his mouth with his shoulder. “Buzzards, two-o-clock!” A snarl; “I’m almost out of lances, run the bitch down! NO—Shut UP and DRIVE, don’t worry about me!” He hisses something. “Teach you to try and ruin my fuckin’ game!”

 

Max hears a muted sound of an explosion from the kid’s laptop. Tilts his head and sees it perched on the steps into the flat.

 

The kid cackles triumphantly; “Look it! She’s all in pieces!” His legs kick over the edges of his pool excitedly. He tilts his beer up over his mouth and sucks the bottle dry with a sad whine; “Slit is AFK, m’ outta beers!” He tosses his controller toward the deck and rolls out of the pool with a splash, ripping off his headset.

 

He jogs inside still dripping and Max can hear him rummaging loudly in his fridge, the slap of his feet on the tile. A moment later he returns outside and approaches the fence, catches the top and levers himself up on his elbows to peer down at Max with his fuzzy brows scrunched over his keen dark eyes; “Hey, got any beers? ‘m all out.”

 

Max takes a deliberate drink of his coffee. He does, but he doesn’t want the kid to know that.

 

Brown eyes narrow and he cranes his neck, peering into Max’s kitchen, “Wanna give me a lift to get some?”

 

“Not particularly.”

 

The kid grunts and the muscles in his arms bunch, readying himself for the drop back to the ground.

 

“What are you playing?”

 

The kid bobs back up again, brows up; “Eh?”

 

“The game.”

 

His grin is disturbing, reptilian; “’s WASTELAND!” He snorts a little; “You never heard of it?”

 

Max only then remembers the exchange at the station. He bobs his head; “I’ve heard of it.”

 

“You game?”

 

A grunt, he nods his head to the side.

 

“You should sign up!” The kid heaves himself up and hooks his hip on the top of the fence, sits there like the fact he’s balanced on two inches of warped, rotting wood is nothing. “Never played a game this customizable… You pick a faction— Like, you’ve got the War Boys, and Black Thumbs, and Gear Heads— You can fight for the Citadel, Gas Town, Bullet Farm, or you can…” He sighs and slices a hand through the air; “You’ll love it—LOOK! I’ll help,” He swings his legs over the fence and drops with a thud onto his heels on Max’s deck, pads over and crouches at his elbow; “See, you jus’ go to the site,” He grabs Max’s laptop and spins it around.

 

Max tries to slap his hands away but he’s got coffee in one fist and Maybe Marcus is still slippery and types impossibly fast. He’s got the website open before Max can even swallow his drink and tell him to slag off.

 

It’s the same gif Max saw at the station.

 

“It’s newer, so not many people’s involved, but they’re coming in by the thousand every day. ‘s great!” He clicks on the image, just as the headlights flare the screen blazes white and what fades into sight is a wide expanse of desert. Again, it looks kind of cheap, just text on a static image. A basic dramatic introduction to the world, Max catches snips of it as Marcus—or is it Malcom— scrolls quickly down the page by mashing in the down arrow key.

 

Apparently the world has ended. Wars and famine and disease, then nukes. Max takes another drink of his coffee and feels his brows knitting. The nukes mutated some people and gave them supernatural abilities, warped others and is killing them slowly. There are zombie like things called Wretched, and the Immorta are the rulers of the land. Max thinks its similar to Dungeons and Dragons, but with cars.

 

Water and Guzzoline and Steel and Bullets are currency. But the text hints that sex is too. Then it’s gone before Max can finish reading it all and the kid has clicked a little skull icon at the bottom of the page. Suddenly the desert goes away, no fade this time, just a page loading—

 

“You want a guy, right?” He accepts Max’s raised eyebrow as a yes and clicks Male.

 

A grey outline of a vaguely muscular male body appears. Beside a long list of options.

 

“You can customize just about ANYTHING!” MarcusMalcom is hunched forward with his tongue poking out the corner of his mouth. “Even different body types!” He clicks a few and the grey outline goes from average to skeletal to exceedingly fat. He laughs, “And height!” He makes the figure very short.

 

Max makes a noise in the back of his throat and takes the laptop back, resets the figure and mutters while he tries to find a body shape and size similar to his own. It still winds up too broad across the chest.

 

The skin tone section is extensive and Max just choses one closest to the color of his fingers and suddenly it’s not just a grey shape standing there, but an animated man with his genitals exposed.

 

MarcusMalcom… maybe it’s Michael, cackles and Max rolls his eyes, “Is that necessary?” Moves to the next page.

 

Apparently it is because the next few options deal with different ‘Factions’. He goes to click one to see the options but Marcus snarls; “NO! LOOK! If you click one, that’s what you are! You can’t undo this! An’ you can be unlucky! Some of the time you click War Boy it cuts your nuts off or gives you cancer! LOOK!” He opens a new tab and types in a long string of letters and numbers and a profile appears, “They call it a Reality Algorithm. I got lucky, see,” The profile must be his character’s. It’s his face on a pale white body covered in ritualistic scars. “Some of my mates weren’t. Victor—Crips—his boy’s nuts got cut off! He complained but the game said that they tried to make it as realistic as possible. War Boys is all ruled by this guy—“ Another string of numbers and letters and an ugly large man in a toothy mask appears, “That’s the Immortan Joe—Only three Immorta in the game. Joe, then there’s the Bullet Farmer—Kalishakov—and the People Eater—he runs Gas Town. Immortan Joe runs the Citadel… He’s basically God… And some of the War Boys is eunuchs. BUT! If you are, it means you were born High Octane—Means you have a higher HP. SO, I guess it’s OK, but I wouldn’t want anybody gettin’ their nuts cut off unless they were OK with it!”

 

Max is not OK with it and scowls at the kid.

 

“Yeah, I didn’t know until I’d already clicked. Like I said, I was lucky,” He motions to the screen, as if urging Max to continue.

 

“What’s that one?” He scrolls down the list. War Boy, Buzzard, Rock Rider, Farmer, Line Runner, Scav. “What’s a Scav?”

 

“Scavenger… Means you can just wander around and learn to do stuff, or whatever… Like, you can become a War Boy after you’ve been a Scav, it just takes longer. You pick it you go right into War Pup Training… Kind of like you get to grow up in the game… It’s great!”

 

Max makes a growling noise of indecision. He doesn’t really like the concept of possibly getting his animated nuts cut off. He clicks Scav.

 

“Ah,” MarcusMalcomMichael—The kid pouts and scans the text on the next page; “OH!” He leans over Max’s shoulder wagging a finger at the third option; “RAGING FERAL! PICK RAGING FERAL!”

 

Max shoves him off, “Aren’t you AFK?”

 

“Fuck, yeah… OK. Let me know when you’re in, I’ll come show you around! You can meet my crew,” He jumps at the fence again and heaves himself over.

 

Max shakes his head once he’s gone. “Raging feral,” He snorts and reads through his options. It’s a list of abilities. He can pick four, but the text says as he levels up he can ‘Adapt’ and earn more. He picks healing, black thumb, whatever that is, range, and iron constitution.

 

Then it’s four pages of detailed physical descriptions he can choose from. Hair color, eye color, nose shape, mouth shape—or Link App, so he can stick his own face on this thing. The idea of putting his face on it is kind of weird in his opinion, so he just goes for the basic options offered by the site. Has to think for a moment about what color his eyes are because he doesn’t honestly know. He knows they’re not brown, but he doesn’t know if they’re blue, green, gray, or aqua. Those four all look the same anyway, so he just picks one in the middle.

 

The clothing option is kind of fun, truthfully and he spends a while hunched over his screen clicking through shirts and jackets and chooses not to have head coverings. He finds, amid the refuse, a gem, and chuckles at it as he clicks. It’s a police issue leather motorcycle jacket, he remembered his father having one like that when he was a kid, can’t quell the wave of nostalgia and chooses it. 

 

There are matching pants and boots and a nifty sawed off shotgun. He gets a Scav Pack for providing and confirming his email address. The pack is literally an old backpack filled with a ration of dried lizards—They look like bacon cut into lizard shapes, water stored in five old soda bottles, a half box of shells for his shotgun, a wicked looking boot knife, and something called Chrome, which looks like a can of deodorant spray. The detail that pops up in the inventory bar when he clicks on it states that Chrome is a spray drug that when used makes the player ‘Kamikrazy’, blows their health to full, and triples the intensity, and accuracy of any attack for sixty seconds. Unfortunately, if you die while Kamikrazy, your character doesn’t respawn. The game is over, and short of creating a new character, or paying the five dollar Renew Fee, that’s it.

 

The last page is a transparency, shows the same desert from before but Max can see the back of his character’s head, he’s swaying slightly and Max realizes that the desert isn’t a picture, it’s the actual backdrop for the game and for a minute he sits there staring at it in awe because he’s never seen such realism. He only shakes himself free from the thrall of it when the kid next door pops his head and shoulders above the line of the fence again; “Hey! Are you in yet?”

 

Max turns to squint at him in annoyance, then turns back to the screen. There are two options.

**[Survival Mode.]**

**[Scavenger Mode.]**

 

Max moves his finger on the touch pad.

 

“How much ammo do you have?” The kid says, something like sick glee in his voice.

 

Max hesitates, “Nine rounds.”

 

The kid giggles; “You’re gonna die!”

 

**‘R’ is reload.**

**‘F’ is fire.**

**‘A’ is aim.**

**‘Q’ is punch.**

**‘S’ is switch weapon.**

**‘T’ is for throw.**

**‘D’ is for drop.**

**‘G’ is for grab.**

**Directional keys for movement, hold down the space bar for speed.**

 

The screen goes black then blindingly white then fades into the desert again. He’s confused at first, because the game hasn’t asked him to pick a screen name or anything, and wasn’t that something you needed? A screen name? Wasn’t Maybe MarcusMalcomMichael—who the fuck knows—wasn’t his character named Slit?

 

There is a growing noise in the background. An engine. Max taps the arrow keys and he sees more of the desert revealed. There is a little blinking yellow S in the top left corner of the screen and he can see, approaching quickly, two cars—rods he supposes because they’re pieced together monstrosities with overly large engines. There are eight War Boys. Two inside the cars, and three hanging on to various—he supposes they’re perches of some kind, like crow’s nests on sail boats and ships he’d seen in Melbourne years and years ago.

 

Then one of the War Boys is shooting at him and behind him MarcusMalcom—Fuck it, he’s just going to call the kid Slit, starts laughing hysterically. “Oh, my GOD! You’re gonna die in like, fifteen seconds of starting!”

 

Max hits the arrow keys and starts running. _Should have hit Scavenger mode. SHOULD HAVE HIT SCAVENGER MODE!_

 

It’s awkward and makes his hand cramp and the cars get closer and the next thing Max knows his character’s left knee explodes.

 

Max flinches at the splatter of dark blood, “Shit!” He tumbles to the ground and the little bar above his head has a chunk missing and every so many seconds a transparent yellow number flashes above his head and the bar drops lower; _-1…-1…-1_

 

The War Boys are shouting, one of them says ‘Filthy Scav!’ and they’re running at him.

 

It’s hyper realistic. His character’s leg is crooked and blood is running out. Behind him Slit is cackling like a hyena. Max is kind of panicking a little, smashes F and one of the War Boys to his right is missing part of his head. A glowing crosshair appears on the next boy’s body, bobbing around as Max moves, he presses the A button and the crosshairs steady on the War Boy’s head. Bang. Two down.

 

One comes at him with a knife and Max hits the R, twice. The War Boy is on him. It’s maddening. A real struggle. Not like other games. Not at all.

 

“TEE-SPACE!” Slit shrieks, “Hit TEE-SPACE!”

 

“What’s that do!”

 

“THRASH!”

 

Max does it, watches as his character thrashes around and dislodges the War Boy, but not before the knife embeds in his arm. Aim, Fire.

 

His Aim is off, gets the next War Boy in the arm and shoulder instead of the head.

 

Reality Algorithm. Right.

 

He wastes his ammo. Can’t get off the ground because of his knee, watches the _-1…-1…-1_ become _-2…-2…-3_ and his health bar ticks down faster and faster.

 

There are three War Boys left and they’re hanging back. Max has no idea if they’re players or NPC. Most likely NPC because none of them have screen names… then again, neither does he right now, but if it were a player, why haven’t they shot him yet? Aside from his leg they’ve not used their guns. Then again, he remembers he’d only had nine shells and a knife.

 

“Is there a health boost?” Max keeps nudging the directional buttons and his character drags himself a little ways, the War Boys follow.

 

“Not unless you’ve got an Organic Mechanic or a Shiny in your crew,” He grins. “Want some help?”

 

“No.”

 

Slit snorts, amused. “You’re gonna bleed out.”

 

“Piss off.”

 

He laughs.

 

Max clicks the knife in his arm and pulls it free. Notices the crosshairs appear on the War Boys again. Could he?

 

His aim is off it keeps ticking back and forth dizzily. The world around him is getting brighter as his health drops.

 

He aims for the Warboy on the far left, aims for his ribs—somehow manages to hit the one in the middle, right in the throat and the other two lunge at him with a shout; “FILTHY SCAV!” and “WITNESSED!”

 

He thrashes the War Boys off, smashes the space bar and the left key and crawls for the knife in the fallen War Boy’s neck, the screen goes darker and everything slows.

 

**Grab Knife?**

**Salvage Weapons?**

**> Knife 3**

**> Gun**

**-Nine Mil Ammo 9**

**> Lance 5**

**> Grenade 3**

**Salvage War Boy Pack?**

**> Water 2**

**> Protein 4**

**> Dried Lizard 2**

**> Dried Apple Slice 6**

**> Chrome 6**

**Salvage Gear**

**> Pants **

**> Boots **

**> Skivvies **

**> Desert Goggles**

**> Desert Scarf**

 

Max blinks, watches as the War Boys slowlySLOWLY lunge to their feet just as Max’s hand lands on the dead War Boy.

 

Gun.

 

Guns are good.

 

Full clip.

 

Even better.

 

BANBBANG!

 

The first War Boy goes down with a bullet in the lung, lies there writhing, cries; “WITNESS ME!”

 

The second keeps coming and Max puts three bullets into him. His aim is shit, one goes into the War Boy’s wrist, the second hits his stomach and the third in the sternum. He drops, falls right onto Max’s legs

 

_-3…-5…-2…-1_

 

The lung shot is still writhing, crawling toward Max with a knife and blood foaming in his mouth. Two bullets go into his head and finally everything is still.

 

The desert is pale and shaking and Max’s health bar is blinking, it’s below one quarter.

 

A guitar riff commemorates the victory.

**First Wave Raiding Party Vanquished! +10 XP**

 

The War Boy on top of him has a first aid kit. When he clicks Salvage Gear another option pops up.

**Use Kit?**

 

A double click and Max sees the inside of the kit, can pick what he wants to use. Double clicks the gauze and the countdown of points from his health bar slows significantly.

 

“What’s your Vitality?” Slit says, annoyed. “You should have bled out by now! Did it hit the artery?”

 

“SHH!”

 

Slit snorts and hefts himself up astride the fence. “Hit Shift-H, it automatically does all that for you.”

 

Max tries it, but it doesn’t work and he gives the kid a sour look.

 

Slit shrugs innocently. “Maybe that’s a crew thing.”

 

Gauze, gauze, gauze.

 

Max Salvages what he can from the bodies around him, notices his health bar is slowly starting to tick upward again, but there is the sound of engines growing in the distance, and more whooping.

 

The map option on his navigation bar shows three skull shaped spots moving quickly toward him from the west. He manages to crawl out from under the dead War Boys, but when he hits the U button to stand a big -6 lights up over him.

 

“What the fuck…”

 

“Reality Algorithm… You got shot in the knee, mate.”

 

Max looks up at him with his mouth hanging open.

 

“Crawl!” Slit says with a wide grin; “Crawl you little bastard. You can’t die before you even get out of the first screen! That—that’s fucking mediocre!” He throws his leg over the fence and hops down when Max doesn’t react fast enough and tries to wrestle the laptop away.

 

Max snarls at him and slaps his hand and holds down the directional key until he runs into one of the War Boy’s cars.

**Salvage Guzz?**

**Salvage Wreck?**

**Yes. No.**

 

Max has a car.

 

The details appear.

**Black Mercury Demon Rod.**

**> Guzzoline 45**

**> Nitrous 3**

**> Grenades 7**

**> Ammo**

**-Shot Gun 17**

**-Nine Mil 156**

**-Fifty Cal 200**

 

He drives, runs over one of the War Boy’s bodies and watches it flop.

 

He drives until the blips of the pursuit party are out of range and keeps driving until his health bar starts flashing again and the world starts going pale and shivery.

 

A hollow drop appears above his head.

 

Slit points; “You’re Dehydrated.”

 

“Why isn’t there a tutorial?”

 

“Reality—“

 

“Shut up.”

 

“It’s how the game works. Trial and error. If you’d started in Scav mode you would have got a basic tutorial… But you didn’t die, so that’s good.”

 

“I thought you were busy.”

 

“Eh, my driver’d signed off. Can’t do War without a driver,” He flapped a hand dismissively; “Probably should scav myself a car one day… Kid’s on one minute then gone. And I’m NOT having some slag for a driver.”

 

Max wrinkled his nose and found the water rations in his pack. Snorted when a notice came up along with blinking yellow numbers.

 

+5+5+5 **[The water is hot and slightly brackish.]**

 

He clicks a dried lizard, curiously and watches in amusement as it’s devoured like jerky. +3+3

 

The sun over the desert starts to go down but the car has no headlights. There are dunes and rocky outcroppings and Max pulls the car up to them, parks in what appears to be a secluded area and watches the sun set. It takes approximately thirty seconds and the sky goes dark, brilliantly spattered with stars.

 

Another option pops up

**Stand Watch?**

**Sleep until Morning?**

**Treat Injury?**

 

Max casts a side-eyed glance at Slit. “This Reality Algorithm… How precise is it?”

 

Slit nods to the side; “Watched one of my crew lose an eye. Didn’t grow back when he respawned… ‘parently you can undo wounds and stuff, but you have to pay for it… It’s right in the disclaimer. These guys—Oh, man, these guys! They thought of everything! Took six years of development just to launch this beta! SIX YEARS!”

 

Max didn’t think it was entirely unrealistic, he’d waited years for the new Fallout.

 

“There’s consequences in the game. Like—you do things and it changes everything.” Obviously.

 

Max blinked at him slowly.

 

“It’s like… REAL!” Slit scrunched his face in frustration; “These places in the game, the rocks and the desert… It’s real! It’s all from satellite photos and scans of the ocean floor! Guys went all out to make it REAL!”

 

“There are zombies—“

 

“Besides that!” Slit inhales deeply; “There’s a video that has the creators explaining everything, or you can just Scav around and talk to the NPC’s. There’s a history lady at the Citidel, Miss Giddy… You’ve gotta go on a mission to get to her, but like, she’s supposed to send you out looking for some big thing… I dunno.”

 

“You didn’t do it?”

 

Slit snorted; “NO! I’m a War Boy, I don’t care about riddles. Really! It’s great! You go on runs and fight raiders and build the Citadel up. I’m like—Three-hundred XP away from becoming an Imperator. And if you die Historic you get your name carved into the wall of the Citadel!”

 

Max wrinkles his nose and makes a low sound in his throat. “That’s it? Get your name carved on a rock?”

 

“Well, yeah!” Slit’s grinning. “Then everybody who ever plays can see it!”

 

Max blinks at him slowly.

 

“It’s not like you can’t start over!”

 

Nothing.

 

“Whatever, your loss,” Slit pushes to his feet, “You got any beer? All this talk’s ruined my buzz,” He scratches at the trail of dark hair south of his navel.

 

Max rolls his eyes and motions toward the fridge with his cold coffee, swallows it anyway because he’s tired and the world is too sharp and annoying. Too much Slit, truthfully and he wants the kid to go away.

 

Slit belches and jogs inside, pulls open the fridge and takes two beers; “I’ll get you back when I get paid!” He slips them into his pockets, climbs over the fence again and goes back to his game.

 

Max tends to his injuries in silence a little entranced and disgusted by the graphic detail of the wound. Slit hadn’t been kidding when he said the game makers hadn’t spared any detail. This was gruesome!

 

“You can’t get infections, can you?”

 

“Yup!”

 

“Shit.”

 

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	2. Bitter Pills

** ANGHARAD and CHEEDO **

 

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She was thirteen years old the first time a man paid her to take her shirt off. Her mother was standing fifteen feet away, arms crossed over her chest puffing on a cigarette.

 

It’s a photo shoot for some Haute magazine. She poses in her panties, draped in a white men’s shirt, her hair artfully disheveled, lips sucked plump and painted like rose petals, eyes wreathed in mascara and smoky shadows.

 

The photo the magazine uses is black and white and airbrushed all over. She doesn’t look like herself, the media, her mother, and the agency says she’s beautiful.

 

“But the name! How—how do you even pronounce that?” Her agent had shaken his head, lips pursed in shame; “No, go with something simple, something elegant! We’ll call you Anna. Anna Garret. It’s lovely… And the teeth. Teeth. Whiten and brighten… We’ll need to put you on a meal plan, can’t let those thighs get out of control.”

 

Her mother was so proud.

 

At sixteen her mother has stopped coming to shoots with her. Her first International spread at eighteen she’s with a man nine years older than she is they call simply Arlan. He’s tall, muscular and coifed within an inch of his life. His assistant spends fifteen minutes spraying him with oil so his skin shines and while the photographer is dialing in his lenses Arlan is pinching his nipples so they stand out attractively. They’ve got him in jeans with the button undone and she can see the label of his boxers above the waistband.

 

She’s wearing underwear and a bra so fragile the company sent over a wrangler just to help her get dressed, just to make sure she was shaved properly so her ‘nasty pubic hair’ didn’t poke through the lace. They’re powder blue. They spritz her with oil and rub it into every piece of skin they can. Arlan doesn’t watch, which she thinks is strange, every other man she’s been photographed with has.

 

They are posed together on a large bed covered in rumpled silk sheets set on a sand bar by the ocean. It’s early morning and she’s freezing. They each kneel on the bed while assistants sweep the sand from their feet and others position lights and reflectors around them.

 

She has no idea how this is supposed to sell anything but keeps her mouth shut. Directors and photographers get upset when you backchat.

 

Arlan talks in a hushed voice as the photos are taken, says he’s worked with this photographer before, “He likes candid expressions.”

 

“What does that mean?”

 

“Natural looking… Like he’s not taking pictures of something posed or staged, but something that just happened.”

 

She hums.

 

“Anna, ANNA!” The photographer says, “Look at him like you love him… Like he’s your world! He’s brought you to this place of exquisite beauty and he’s just told you that of all this luscious extravagance that surrounds you he finds you most beautiful thing in existence!”

 

She knows the expression the man wants… It’s the same expression she’d made when she was thirteen. The same expression all of them wanted. Her mother had coached it into her since she was nine years old.

 

‘Worship!’ she’d said. ‘They all want you to look at them like you worship the ground they piss on,’ Mother had been brushing her hair, braiding it so it fell in soft waves for the portfolio shoot tomorrow. ‘You’re too pretty for your own good… Use that. Use it and no door will be closed to you.’

 

Mother hadn’t been what you would call ‘pretty’. She was tall and bird like with a long nose and small mouth. Spoke with a thick Welsh accent. After Angharad had been offered her first modeling job, just a small thing, a clothing store needed models for their children’s fashion show—it had paid well and a woman, a real fashion agent had said Angharad had ‘Potential’, that if puberty didn’t make her fat she could go far.

 

Angharad hadn’t had a full meal, or so much as a whole bar of chocolate since she was ten years old. First mother, then her agents warned her against letting biology take over, or letting herself ‘Go’. Her first agent, the one from the fashion show, had shown her how to purge, but it hadn’t ever truly taken. Angharad’s mother preferred ‘serving sizes’ and ‘portioning’ to making her daughter throw up after every meal. ‘Your teeth,’ she’d said, ‘It’ll ruin your teeth.’

 

That wasn’t to say there weren’t weekends before shoots when Angharad had nothing but ‘smoothies’, celery thrown into the blender with ice and lemon juice.

 

Sour cold things. She hated them.

 

The first time she missed her period Mother became Irate, dragged her to the doctor for examinations that left Angharad weeping and feeling violated with drops of blood in her panties that had nothing to do with her period.

 

“She’s not got enough fat on her to fill a thimble!” She’d overheard the doctor saying.

 

“She’s perfectly healthy!”

 

“A girl her age should weigh about—“

 

“She’s PERFECTLY healthy! Look at her!”

 

“Missus Jones—“

 

“I won’t have you calling my daughter ugly! She’s a model! She’s beautiful!”

 

“That’s all well and good, but she needs to eat!”

 

Mother hadn’t taken her back to that doctor, her new agent had suggested a different one, one that catered to women in the Industry.

 

This doctor had assured mother that everything was fine, just fine. If Angharad wanted to keep in shape she should exercise! A personal trainer was a must. Had to take care of those curves.

 

Arlan’s brows pulled down; “Was that your stomach?” He grinned.

 

“Didn’t have time for my breakfast. I’ll eat after,” She tilted her chin up mocking the urge for a kiss.

 

“Ah, that’s awful! I can make him stop if you’re hungry, no sense in making yourself uncomfortable,” His sooty ashes lowered, chin tilting, but he kept talking; “Shouldn’t have to suffer just to stay in shape.”

 

“Says you, you can eat whatever you want.”

 

The photographer snapped, “Anna! Put your hand on his face, lightly—gently—you’re glass, about to break!”

 

Arlan grinned, dimples on his cheeks; “Are you kidding? Do you know what I’d do for a pizza right now. You remember pizza, right? Nice big slice all dripping with grease and cheese—“

 

“That’s it Anna, you’re perfect! Arlan, put your hand on her throat, you’re a hungry animal ready to devour her!”

 

“—Pepperonis, onion, big thick crust with cheese baked in—“

 

The photographer is chanting ‘beautiful you’re beautiful’ under his breath, holds his hand out for another camera, the close lens and comes right up to the bed for close ups, he doesn’t hear a word Arlan is saying, has no idea that the look on Angharad’s face isn’t for this shoot, isn’t for the camera.

 

The photographer steps back smiling, sweat on his brow. “Yes… yes, I think I’ve got it. That was beautiful. Arlan, you were wonderful! Perfection… Anna, darling—“ He hesitates, eyes misty; “Splendid work.”

 

Angharad is shaking as she’s helped out of her garments, her makeup and oil washed away in the shower, the spray rinsed from her hair. She dresses, loose clothing, velour track suit her agent allowed her to work out in. She puts together a smoothie, adds extra celery and chugs it to be past the taste faster.

 

Arlan is waiting outside her trailer. Her assistant Penelope is nowhere to be seen. He holds up a finger to his lips and jerks a thumb over his shoulder; “Come on, I know a place we can get a pie!”

 

She blinks at him, scandalized; “But I’ve already had…”

 

“No one will know! It’s safe!”

 

She shakes, even after the smoothie her stomach still feels empty. Cold inside… She hasn’t had pizza—real honest to god PIZZA since she was thirteen.

 

She goes with him.

 

He has fake glasses in his glove box, a sweater he pulls on over his shirt. It’s lumpy and ugly and doesn’t have a tag. It’s covered in a red and blue and yellow Fair Isle design and Angharad stares at it.

 

Arlan smiles, blushes; “My grandmother made it for me,” He lets her put on his hoodie and the fake glasses and she feels like a different person, frumpy, hidden, weighed down.

 

He doesn’t try to touch her, or kiss her like other men have, like her agent had that once at an event he’d taken her to. Arlan buys a pizza the size of a manhole cover that DRIPS with grease. Angharad hasn’t smelled anything so delicious in YEARS.

 

They eat and eat and eat and Angharad has three sodas. She is so full her stomach is visibly distended and her mouth is coated with the taste.

 

Arlan is chewing on a piece of crust with a distant look on his face; “That!” he says, “Now, THAT’s beautiful!”

 

She hums, questioningly and he pulls out his phone, lifts his brows asking for permission.

 

He scoots closer, leans his shoulder against her own, his fingers brushing hers on the table top. “Smile!”

 

He takes one picture and shares it with her.

 

Angharad stares. He looks stunning, happy and comfortable… But Angharad only sees discomfort in her eyes.

 

Her skin is spotted—freckles—her makeup team says they can only be covered with a certain foundation and powder. Her lashes are almost invisible—no mascara—her brows thin and undefined—no liner. Her lips are pale and thin because she was nervous of having her photo taken without makeup…

 

She looks like every photo she’s seen of regular people on the internet. The women on Facebook who have no image to uphold, who have no personal trainers or makeup team. The girls who play sports and go to school and have dates and crushes and sleepovers with chocolate and popcorn and jelly babies… She looks like a PERSON, not a face in a magazine that isn’t really her, but only the base of her under the airbrushing.

 

“Anna—Anna, are you alright? You can delete it if you want—“

 

She shakes her head, “Can I keep it? I… I’d like to keep it.”

 

His brows pull in. “Of course, please—are you alright?”

 

She nods.

 

She doesn’t see Arlan again after that, but she doesn’t forget him like the media eventually does. He fades out of popularity when there is no gossip about who he’s dating, or who he’s fucking.

 

After three months it’s as if she only imagined him.

 

She can’t look at the photos from their shoot. Even as it is praised as her best work. The lingerie company wants her for a runway show, sends over a contract that stipulates she can’t be larger than a size four, but they want her bust enlarged.

 

Her agent asks if she’d be willing to have ‘Augmentation’.

 

“What?” She shakes her head; “No, absolutely not!”

 

“Think of the job! Anna, you’re not going to sell anything if your tits are the size of a nine-year-old’s! Men want WOMEN! Not stringy little girls!”

 

And something in Angharad snaps; “Well, which is it? Do they want WOMEN or this SHIT!” She shoves the photos strewn across the table and sends half a dozen of them fluttering to the floor.

 

“Anna, what’s gotten into you! I will not have you disrespecting this company’s property like that!”

 

“It’s ME!” She lunges to her feet; “Those photos are of ME! Or at least what the industry THINKS I should be!” She snatches up a proof and waves it. “Do you not see how unrealistic this is! They want women, not stringy girls? Every job I’ve had for YEARS has said I have to keep my figure— ‘Don’t let yourself go!’ try this diet, try this plan, remember your portions! Women—REAL WOMEN—actually fucking EAT! They don’t look like that! They have curves and lines and wrinkles and s-stretch marks! We’ve got hair! And scars and spots! We don’t look like this! I DON’T EVEN LOOK LIKE THIS AND IT’S ME!”

 

“Anna Garret, you control yourself in this office, do you understand me? I am your manager, and your agent and I will not be spoken to like a common criminal! If you want to work you will do as I say, or if you’d rather go back to some fucking sheep paddock in Wales I can put you on the next flight out and be done with your unreasonable demands! NOBODY, and I do mean nobody, wants to work with an insufferable diva, do you understand? You’re young and pretty, but there are thousands of young and pretty girls out there who would do ANYTHING I ask of them, or BE anything I tell them to, just for the chance to be in your shoes right now. So you’d best shut your fucking mouth, you pretentious little cunt and clean up this mess!”

 

He’s standing there over her now and for a moment Angharad things he may strike her. Her internal organs are quivering, she can’t draw breath.

 

She picks up the photos and stacks them on the desk. When he doesn’t speak to her again she picks up her coat, her purse, and leaves.

 

She goes back to her flat, a lavish, empty, cold place of a sterile white color overlooking the city, sinks to the floor in the dark and weeps.

 

She doesn’t dare call her mother, how angry would she be. She’d tell Angharad she was ungrateful. She’d put the family home up for sale to get her only child where she is today, she’s living in a small cottage now, alone. Doesn’t Angharad understand that? The place she’d been born, the place her mother had been born—the place of their ancestors is a car park now because Angharad had wanted to be a model. Three years? Pathetic.

 

There’s a bottle of wine in the cooler in the kitchen—three if she’s not wrong. She’s never looked. Enjoyed a glass of champagne at a few events her agent has dragged her to, publicity stunts. Meet and Greets.

 

Angharad drinks a bottle of wine and throws up. Falls asleep curled fully clothed in the big empty bed staring at the wall.

 

She does the runway show and faints afterward in her trailer, wakes up in the back of an ambulance with an IV in her arm and her agent talking angrily into his phone.

 

Angharad is nineteen years old in two weeks, six feet four inches tall, and she weighs exactly one-hundred pounds. It may as well be a thousand. She feels bloated and misshapen—feels sorry for the nurses that come and go out of her room. One of them—a large woman named Sosa with dark skin and hair fixed into microscopic little braids scowls at her disapprovingly.

 

“I’m sorry,” Angharad says one evening when Sosa is taking her blood pressure, “You must think I’m so pathetic—“

 

“The only pathetic person I’ve seen since you’ve come in is that man you’re with… All he’s done is claim ‘damage control’ while he’s badmouthing you…”

 

“He’s my agent—“

 

“He’s a piece of work!” Sosa purses her full lips and lays a long fingered hand on Angharad’s wrist; “Sweetheart, don’t ever let anybody treat you badly. If you’re unhappy, or upset it’s for a reason. Nobody has the right to tell you your feelings are invalid.”

 

“I can’t just leave… It’s my job—“

 

“I’m not saying don’t do your job… I’m saying, make sure you feed yourself before you let anybody else have a piece of your pie. We’ve only got so much of ourselves to give. And if you let someone take away those pieces…”

 

Angharad inhales deeply and lets it out.

 

Sosa sighs, “Baby, it’s not your responsibility to make miserable people happy. He’s always gonna be a miserable man because that makes him happy… You tryin to fix that just makes you miserable too.”

 

When she is released from the hospital, six pounds heavier with a normal blood sugar and electrolyte level the first thing Angharad does is cut her hair. Just goes home—sees images from the runway show—comments about her hair and makeup and the size of her thighs and breasts plastered across the internet, sees the words ‘bursting out of those panties’ in the comments section, goes to the bathroom and hacks her hair off at her shoulders.

 

Her agent is furious. Her hair and makeup team are HORRIFIED!

 

“You can’t just go around doing whatever you want! You’re butchering yourself! Is that what you want? You want to throw all of this away for some stupid temper tantrum?”

 

At first they put in extensions. Long heavy, itchy things. But she takes them out… leaves her apartment with her hair curled in fat little spirals around her jaws, pokes her tongue out at the flashing cameras, gives them the prongs and the Paparazzi eat it up.

 

Suddenly she’s a trend setter. Fierce. Fearless. Out of control. Drinking too much. Drugs? All Night Partying?

 

She goes out to have drinks with one man. One date, and suddenly there’s one paper claiming there’s a sex tape,  another claiming she’s pregnant, another that says she’s a lesbian. Yet another says that her date is actually her secret husband. Then two weeks later, no they’re getting a divorce and it will ruin her career, he’s taking her for millions because she won’t go to rehab.

 

“Don’t you see now?” Her agent says. “They’ll eat you alive!”

 

It takes almost six months for her to get another shoot. The photographer is a woman. It’s an all day affair, gowns and dresses and swimming suits and mockups of fine dining, food that is very real but she isn’t allowed to eat. Four hours in and Angharad is fighting to stay calm. Fighting to hold still and give the photographer what she wants.

 

“Anna—Anna, are you alright? Someone get in there, her makeup’s running to shit!” The wrangler calls and holds a hand out to the photographer.

 

“No… No, stop, just please—please don’t touch me,” She pushes at them, but they crowd in with tissues and powder and mascara and palates that cost more than all the food in Angharad’s fridge at home, all the food she’s eaten this week.

 

They don’t listen, coo and say that everything is OK, “Just look up, Dear, and smile.”

 

“Right, this isn’t working—Anna, go compose yourself, this is pointless if you’re not going to cooperate,” The wrangler says in something close to a snarl.

 

The photographer stands there with her brows bunched and hands her camera off to an assistant. Follows as Angharad flees to her ‘dressing room’ a tiny curtained off area behind the backdrops where all her garments are laid out and her makeup is ready. She feels trapped and alien and sick—

 

“Anna? Miss Garret, are you alright?”

 

“I’m fine—I’m—I’m so sorry,” She dabs at her eyes with a shaking hand and a balled tissue, “I don’t know what’s come over me—m-must be hormones.”

 

“Anna,” The woman’s voice drops, “Look at me, are you sure—are you positive that you’re alright.”

 

She turns to the photographer, takes in her short hair and wide face, her broad hips and plump legs and wants to cry—feels her eyes running and the sticky mess of her makeup even as she smiles and says she’s fine.

 

The woman shakes her head and pulls out a chair, “Sit, lets have a chat, yeah? I didn’t get to talk to you earlier and it seems like we’ve just been shouting demands at you since we started.”

 

Angharad shakes her head and motions to the dress; “It’s taffeta… I’ll crush it.”

 

The photographer wrinkles her nose and stands again, motions and pulls the zip of the dress down, practically flings it carelessly into the corner and drapes a towel around the girl’s shaking shoulders, lets her pull it closed in front, can count the stack of her ribs and the knobs of her spine through the thin, pale sheathe of her skin; “Christ… Anna,” She watches the girl fold in on herself, hand trembling. She turns and calls out the door; “Someone bring me an orange juice and some sugar packets.”

 

Angharad drinks it when it comes, feels the trembling slowly leave her bones, the chill flee from her face.

 

“There, that better?”

 

“Yeah, yeah… Where’s the dress?”

 

“Fuck the dress,” The photographer hands her another tissue and shoos away the intern standing in the doorway. “Pet, look at me.”

 

She has kind eyes, dark like a moonless night. Smiles and the corners of her eyes crinkle, “Anna, I’m sorry we were just shouting at you…”

 

“You’re just doing your job—I-I need to do mine—“

 

“The magazine doesn’t want you working yourself sick… This isn’t for some company or some line…” Her nose wrinkles; “Do you even know what we’re doing?”

 

“Not really… He—My agent said it’s a collection, for an interview?”

 

She nodded, “For a teen fashion magazine.”

 

Angharad groans and drops her face into her hands; “They don’t want me… Those poor girls. They don’t need to see me—They need to see good things—happy things. Things that tell them they’re pretty even with the spots and pimples and hairs.”

 

The photographer blinks and tilts her head a little; “Yeah?”

 

“Don’t tell Him I said that… He’d be furious… Just my temper tantrums,” She laughs humorlessly and tries to stop the tears. “C-can I have more juice?”

 

The woman nods but sits motionlessly, then seems to shake herself, “Yeah, yeah, sure,” She goes to get it herself. Comes back a few moments later, long enough to stand outside the curtained door and watch Angharad blow her nose inelegantly and tried to hide the evidence in her purse.

 

“You just drink this down and I’ll be back in a mo’.”

 

It’s more than a moment, it’s more like thirty minutes and when the photographer comes back she’s grinning broadly, a keen light in her eyes. She holds out her hand, “Anna, I have an idea.”

 

Her agent hates it.

 

The magazine breaks a record for number of issues sold.

 

They’d scrapped the whole article and phone interview. All the careful answers her agent had crafted for her. The writer, a woman in her thirties they call Many, drives an hour to meet her in the studio where they’re taking the photos. She’s shaking and gives Angharad a hug that’s just a tad too tight.

 

Anna Garret, Body Positivity!

 

“No, I’m not happy with how girls and women are portrayed in the media. It—it really sickens me. The first photos of me ever in a national magazine I was thirteen years old. He (the photographer) had me in my underpants and an open shirt… That—it’s not appropriate, I don’t care what it’s advertising, it’s not appropriate for a thirteen-year-old.

“I remember, just two years ago an image of me that was circulating. I was wearing next to nothing—you know the one. I hadn’t eaten anything more than smoothies for a week prior, I was lightheaded and couldn’t even see straight…

“It has to stop. Girls—wonderful girls out there are seeing these images and striving to look this way. It’s unhealthy! I don’t even look this way…

“There’s absolutely nothing wrong with how your body looks right this very minute. Lines, fat, pimples, spots, hairs and all. It doesn’t matter if you’re pretty, as long as you’re happy with who you are as a person. I wish someone had told me that before I started modeling and I may have become a happier person than I am now.”

 

Her agent yells at her for thirty minutes. “If you hate this job so much I’m sure you’re plenty qualified to do other things… Working at a McDonalds perhaps? Or maybe pornography, I’ve heard there’s a thriving industry for that. Plenty of women with your mindset spreading their legs in the name of feminism. Do you want me to cut you loose? Do you want to be a laughingstock? Nobody wants to work with a diva, Anna. Nobody wants an opinionated, zealous, whiny twat.”

 

Angharad goes home and slams things around, throws her purse and her coat, kicks off her shoes and throws those too, then locks herself away in her bedroom. Scrubs all the makeup from her face and showers in cold water hoping to calm herself down.

 

She throws herself naked across her bed, presses her face into the pillow and screams, digs her nails into the flesh of her stomach and thighs, pulls her hair. She wants to hurt something. Wants to scratch and bite and SHRED something.

 

She starts shaking when she sees the bloody furrows she’s carved into herself with her nails, panics and cuts her nails down, sits with her back in the corner of the wall and her bed and shivers, fears she’s ruined her body and her agent will shout—her mother will shout—she’ll be out of a job, worthless.

 

Pornography—Will she really have to work in…

 

She pulls at her hair. “Stop it… Angharad STOP. He’s trying to scare you into doing what he wants. You don’t deserve that. You don’t deserve this… You’re not a thing to be pushed around. You’re not a doll, you’re a person. A PERSON! You don’t deserve this!”

 

She’s shaking with rage and impotence, rips through her mail in desperation to DO something and finds a package from the photographer… Nina Tremaine. Nina. A person not a thing.

 

“Dear Anna, I thought you would like to see this. Love Always, Nina.”

 

The little box is filled with letters. Dozens, from young girls who had read the magazine article, who had seen the photos of Angharad, not the ones in gowns and suits, but the ones Nina had taken afterward. Angharad in her track suit, bare foot, grinning—laughing. No makeup. Black and whites, colors. Ones of the crew crowded in. Women of all shapes and sizes and colors, standing in a line, sides to the camera smiling, laughing.

 

She remembers Nina encouraging her; “This is amazing… Anna—Anna you have no idea. You’re going to change lives with this.”

 

Photos pinned to letters, names and smiling faces. She sits there and reads each one, touches each smiling face and feels tears running down her neck. And then she finds it, near the bottom of the box, written on a piece of hospital stationary.

 

“Dear Ms. Garret, My name is Anita, the photo enclosed is of my fifteen-year-old God Daughter Chelsea. Nine months ago Chelsea lost her mother to depression. Since then she has been battling an Anorexia and depression. She has been a fan of Teen Green for years now and when she read your interview started eating again and cooperating in treatment for her illness. As of today she’s gained three pounds and has had her feeding tube removed. I know you probably get hundreds of letters like this every month, but I had to tell you how grateful I am that you did that interview. Thank you for helping my God Daughter find the courage to fight back. Deepest respect and love, Anita Barrows.”

 

The photo is of a woman of average build with short black hair leaning over a hospital bed in which there is a girl. She’s small, thin and has dark eyes set into her face. Her hair is cropped short, just below her jaw and the smile on her face is small, but triumphant.

 

If you weren’t looking closely you wouldn’t be able to tell the child was sick, but Angharad knows looks can be deceiving, knows what it feels like to have fluids and electrolytes put into you through tubes. Knows that those ‘yummy’ smoothies her mother had made her as a child to drink between rice cakes and crackers took more calories to digest than were in them. Knew going a week drinking nothing but celery juice and water was just starving herself slowly. She knows that just because the surface is calm, doesn’t mean that there isn’t a haboob beneath.

 

Angharad calls Nina at three in the morning; “This girl… I—I want to meet this girl and her god mother… Please.”

 

It happens on a Saturday.

 

The girl, Chelsea, is still in the hospital. Will be until she can tolerate solid foods. She and her God mother are watching a television program on sharks.

 

Nina goes with her, holds her hand. There are no cameras.

 

The nurse knocks on the door and calls out; “Ms. Dawson? You have a visitor, is that OK?”

 

“What?” That must be her. “W-who’d want to come see me?”

 

“Who is it?” Her godmother.

 

The nurse’s voice is smiling; “There’s a nice lady here who wants to see you, is that OK?”

 

“I suppose,” Anita says. “Do you want to see who it is?”

 

The girl is quiet for a minute, “I guess… Does my hair look OK?”

 

“You look beautiful!” Anita says.

 

The nurse comes out and smiles, the other nurses are crowded around, wide eyed whispering.

 

Angharad eases into the room slowly, feels out of place and somehow too tall and gangly as she lifts her fingers in a wave.

 

The girl’s eyes widen impossibly in her face and her mouth drops open. Anita holds a sob back behind her palm and throws both arms around Angharad’s neck. She shakes and shakes and says ‘Thank you, thankyouthankyou’, then steps back and stands in the corner of the room while Angharad takes a seat beside the girl’s bed, hugs her tightly and whispers into her brittle black hair; “You’re so brave. I’m so proud of you!”

 

Chelsea wants to be a writer. She wants to make video games and write books about them.

 

“Do you play video games?” She says.

 

Angharad shakes her head; “No, not really, do you?”

 

The girl rolls her eyes; “I love video games… There’s this one—it’s new—it’s called Wasteland? Maybe you’ve heard of it— Auntie Anita let me make an account. You should play it! You could be on my crew! None of the boys in the game want to be on my crew so I get killed by Wretched a lot.”

 

Angharad hesitates only a fraction of a second. “I’d love to play Wasteland with you.”

 

Anita sighs and smiles politely while whipping tears from her eyes, “You don’t have to, I know you must be busy.”

 

“I don’t mind.”

 

“It really is violent,” She warns, rubbing tears from one eye.

 

“It’s fantastic!” Chelsea says, “You’ll love it!”

 

They play for the first time a week later, on Saturday. Chelsea is home from the hospital and eating ice cream. So far she has tolerated eating small meals and taking nutrition shakes very well. There is a stipulation to their gameplay. Her appointments with the therapist have to be attended, her medication taken on time, and she has to have met or exceeded her calorie count for the day. And eating nothing but chocolate bars and nutrition shakes doesn’t count.

 

Chelsea is practically bouncing on the Skype image. Can’t believe that Angharad is actually talking to her, actually going to play Wasteland with her.  It’s unbelievable! Just Unbelievable!

 

Angharad makes an email account just for the game, one she and Chelsea can communicate through that nobody knows is actually her. The girl says she has no friends so who would she tell? Besides all the girls from school are twats.

 

Chelsea’s avatar looks just like her. She’s wearing Line Runner sandals made of salvaged tire rubber and strips of grey linen wrapped to her knees over a pair of gray pants and a bronze colored tunic. She carries a pistol on each hip and a tall metal walking staff with a blade on one end and has a blue veil like scarf and goggles hanging around her neck.

 

“I had a motor bike, but some War Boy smegs stole it.”

 

“Okay, what do I do now? It has a list of things… I’m assuming it’s the factions you were talking about.”

 

“Yeah, just don’t pick War Girl… The War Boys don’t like it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“They just kill you over and over when you do it, or refuse to play with you… They’re assholes.”

 

“Assholes, got it.”

 

“What are you?”

 

“Line Runner Scav… But I maxed out my Raging Feral so I’m really good at melee and hand-to-hand… Toast—she lives on a cattle station west from here. She used to be a Rock Rider, but the boys chased her off. She maxed out her driving skills and got Precognition in her last level-up. I think I’m gonna see if I can get Hawk Eyes… But we’ll have to wait until I level up for that.”

 

“What’s Hawk Eyes?”

 

“Means you can see really far away.”

 

A little green notification appears at the bottom of Angharad’s computer screen, notifying her that she has a friend waiting in the game, does she know this person? Yes. And suddenly there’s Chelsea standing there waiting for her. Above her head in blue text is the name ‘CHEEDO’.

 

“Cheedo?”

 

The girl hums; “Yeah, it’s what my dad used to call me. After he died I didn’t let anybody call me that, but it doesn’t hurt so much anymore… And it’s a lot better than Chelsea any day.”

 

Angharad hums. “May I call you that?”

 

“Sure!” She grins in the little video screen, delighted.

 

Angharad feels herself smiling; “Cheedo… It’s nice to meet you!”

 

She shakes her head and giggles a little; “You’re weird.”

 

“Should I start in Survival or Scavenger mode?”

 

“Which-ever you want… Just be careful, I’m with you so there’ll be a lot of ‘em.”

 

“What?”

 

“Survival Mode, means a bunch of War Boys attack you and you gotta get away from them. If you can, it’s an easy way to get a car or a bike. Toast made it by flirting with them and slitting their throats then running the other car into the canyon… It was epic. I got hit with a flamer, burned off all my hair and melted my back, see?” Her character turns around and with a few clicks her outer tunic is gone, just leaving her with her chest wrapped in bandages. There is a twisted scar across her character’s back. “I thought I’d die, but this woman from the US had an Organic on her crew and they helped me out. It’s still early there, so she’s probably not on, but she’s great.”

 

“So you can die in the game? What happens if you die?”

 

“Well, unless you’re Kamikrazy you respawn.”

 

“Respawn? That means you come back to try again, right?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“What’s Kamikrazy?”

 

“What happens when you Chrome-up. Makes your attacks stronger and faster, but if you die while the timer’s running you don’t come back and you’ve got to make a new character.”

 

“Okay… No Chroming-up then.”

 

Cheedo laughs.

 

Anita had warned her that the game was violent, and it is.

 

The game is _exceedingly_ violent.

 

Three minutes in Angharad shoots a War Boy in the head with a fifty-caliber machine gun and his head explodes in a shower of red and gray flesh. They wind up destroying both cars, but it doesn’t matter.

 

It—it’s amazing. She feels—feels POWERFUL!

 

“Oh, my God,” She giggles. “This is fantastic!”

 

Cheedo bounces around on screen cheering, “Check out your loot! You just click on them and hit ‘Salvage All’.”

 

It seems kind of morbid to salvage anything from ‘dead bodies’ but it’s fun, like little treasure hunts. And it’s not that the War Boys are actually players. Angharad feels she would be unsettled salvaging from a player.

 

“Cheedo… What’s a Tranquility Shard?”

 

“Ooo! Those are really rare! I’m not sure what you can do with them, but they go for like sixteen liters of water in Bartertown.”

 

“That’s a lot?”

 

“Yeah. Or you can trade them to Dag, she collects stuff like that.”

 

“What else is there to do?”

 

“Well, if we stick around here more War Boys will show up and we can kill them too, but more and more show up each time… Farthest I’ve made it is four cars and that was because I had grenades.”

 

“Then where can we go?”

 

“Anywhere! Come on!” Her character turns and starts running and after a few fumbling clicks Angharad follows.

 

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	3. Battle Fodder

**THE DAG**

 

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It’s simple really.

 

Don’t. Touch.

 

She’s quiet. Pale. Beautiful. Willowy. Her mother signed her up for ballet when she was barely old enough to say her name without stuttering.

 

At fifteen she’s performed in the National Ballet and auditioned for companies in Moscow, London, and Paris.

 

They called her a Moon Lily. Poise and perfection and most of all, silence.

 

Tall, dainty, and graceful with slim long fingered hands and wide silver eyes.

 

She breaks the wrist of the first man who tries to slip his fingers under the edge of her leotard. He calls her a bitter albino bitch and threatens to break her legs. Says she’ll never dance in a real ballet because she doesn’t know her place.

 

She shows his balls what a Grand Battmente really looks like. He doesn’t bother her again.

 

And _Plie._

 

After that they call her the Ice Queen. Then Daglock and they start bleating at her like sheep behind her back.

 

When she gets home she eats then settles on her bed with her laptop and rolls her pretty lips back from her teeth. She hisses, shoots War Boys and steals their cars. Sells them in Barter Town, and buys little animals in cages meant to be eaten. Feeds them, cares for them and sets them free. And because the game doesn’t understand this, they remain free around the cave she has claimed, wild and fluttering about. They don’t run from her, and can’t be stolen by War Boys who like to come in and wreck her cave, because technically they’re food and she’s taken them out of their wrappers.

 

They can’t eat it, can’t kill it, the most they can do is stomp where the animal is resting and curse at her, she laughs at their impotence. Laughs harder when they Chrome up and try to kill her. Damn near cackles when they manage it and take her water, then die because it’s poison, all Kamikrazy and at the ends of their Half-lives.

 

Sometimes they make a new account and come after her again but it doesn’t matter. If they do she’s ready for them. Laughs and breaks heads.

 

“Schlanger!”

 

It’s Dag that finds him. The Scav.

 

He’s active, his player trying to get him up and moving, but the Reality Algorithm doesn’t work like that. Whoever his player is, he won’t reply verbally. Won’t talk and doesn’t type much.

 

“Yeah, you’re pretty much fucked,” She says, standing over him. “Are you a newb or something?”

 

The Scav’s sick, got a bullet in the knee and a wound in his arm. There’s a red glow around him that indicates he’s infected with something.

 

“It’s not Wretch is it? Because I haven’t leveled up, yet. I can’t help with that.”

 

She gets a typed _''_ No’.

 

“Mobility engine gets twisted around when you’re sick… The game developers weren’t messing around,” She drops into a crouch beside him, “I can cut it off if that’ll help.”

 

‘What?’

 

“Your leg.”

 

A moment of twitching; ‘no’.

 

“Respawning not work? I could shoot you?”

 

‘No’ then after a moment ‘tried that’.

 

“Hmm,” She searches her inventory. “This Reality thing really blows sometimes.”

 

The grunting and sick moaning noise the game supplies for his avatar seems somehow in agreement.

 

“I could capture you and take you to Bartertown… Maybe they’ve got medicine there… If you die from infection you’re locked out for two days… Saw it happen once.”

 

‘Capture me?’

 

“I’ll let you escape. Don’t have any use for a man anyway.”

 

There was a long pause, ‘How old are you?’

 

“Old enough to kick ass, but not enough to buy beer. Why, you a pedo?”

 

‘No, that’s why I asked. ’

 

“Yeah, you’ve gotta be old to type out everything like that. What are you, thirty?”

 

‘Old enough to be your dad apparently’

 

She snorted, hissed out a laugh. ‘’s fine, just don’t be a creep. This is just a game, not a buffet.”

 

He said nothing.

 

It was kind of easy to capture him, not so easy to drag him into the car. He twitches and moans the whole ride to Bartertown. It’s kind of funny.

 

“So,” Dag says, watching their blip move on the map, there are no War Boys in sight so she has no reason to detour to kill things. “What do you DO?”

 

‘Cop’.

 

“You’re full of shit.”

 

‘And yet, still a cop.’

 

“Really? Cops play Wasteland?”

 

‘Since 3 days ago.’

 

She rolls her nose up; “Do you even know how to use a headset?”

 

He says nothing. She laughs.

 

They arrive at Bartertown a few moments later and Dag disengages from the car.

 

“I captured you, so you can still type to me even if I leave you here. If anybody comes over without me, shoot them.”

 

He can’t see her, but when he pulls back and pans the camera down he can see Bartertown. It’s expansive, with dozens of cars parked at various intervals around it. He assumes it’s basically the equivalent of the marketplace of the game. Tents and awnings and burned out little sheds. There’s a man selling meat. Dag groans and makes a disgusted noise in her throat; “Ugh… This game—Gods…”

 

‘What?’

 

“’s long pig.”

 

A long silence; ‘Game’s got cannibalism?’

 

“Reality, Scav. Reality.”

 

A few players break into a fight over trying to steal things from one another’s cars. A War Boy Chromes up and runs through the town shouting ‘WITNESS ME!’ and waving a gun while his player cackles and overturns a few stalls. Throughout the town Max can hear other players and characters laughing and shouting ‘WITNESS!’ in reply.

 

His health bar is ticking down quickly. ‘Dag, I’m dying again’.

 

“Hold on, I found her, coming.”

 

HER, is a woman, or at least a female character. She’s tall and thin with one bulky mechanical arm and black smeared across her brow. Her head is shaved and she has a big gun on her hip. A War Boy is following her, he has a big skull carved into his chest and bulbous lumps across his throat.

 

“This the Scav?” The War Boy says. He's soft spoken sounds older, not like most of the players. At least in his mid-twenties, possibly thirties. Max doesn’t feel so old now.

 

“Yeah,” Dag says and drags him out of the car like a sack of potatoes.

 

The War Boy drops into a crouch and rummages in a catchall on his waist. Comes out with some kind of medicine and a first-aid kit. It’s fast movement, not point-and-click like Max had done treating himself And another yellow activity bar appears above his head.

 

“This’d go faster if we weren’t outside, but whatever… Maybe they’ll fix it in the upgrade,” There's a shrill noise from the War Boy's end of the audio and he hums, “Tosser is AFK.”

 

“TOSS” About half a dozen voices repeat in a low monotone, like they’re bored or distracted. The War Boy keeps moving and the yellow status bar above his head ticks and ticks.

 

Dag sighs; “Well, how are things at the Citidel?”

 

“Hmm,” The woman—it’s actually a woman, “Can’t complain. Ace had to deal with real life today so we’re bartering, big Run tomorrow, so I get to fight the other Imperators for the War Rig. What about you? Those boys haven’t been around again, have they?”

 

“No, pretty peaceful, until I found him.”

 

“What about you, Scav, you got a name?” The woman says, as if amused.

 

He types but gets an error message. Apparently you can’t type a reply when you’re supposed to be unconscious.

 

“Oh, he doesn’t have a headset.”

 

“Ah, that sucks. Game’s still got a few bugs. See if you can get a good headset, if not there’s a few cheap but workable ones on Amazon. I hope the Reality shit doesn’t put you off too much. It can make the game really interesting, but in the beginning it’s kind of tedious.”

 

“Understatement,” Dag mutters.

 

“Tosser, reengaged!”

 

“TOSS.”

 

“You still there, Scav?”

 

“He’s muted, text only and the Bug’s got him. Newb,” Dag is up on her feet now, shuffling around kicking at the sand. Once or twice something shiny blips at her feet and she rummages in her side bag as she collects it.

 

“Ah, that sucks,” Tosser says with a sigh; “Definitely invest in a headset, and a controller! You can get them at the Wasteland store… USB adaptation. So chrome!”

 

Max snorts.

 

“Just in case you’re wondering,” Dag says, kicking more piles of sand. “Sometimes you can find items just lying around.”

 

“Usually shit,” Tosser says.

 

“You never know when it could be useful!”

 

“You don’t need to collect broken rubber washers.”

 

“You can trade them for whole ones.”

 

“And what are you going to do with rubber washers,” Tosser snorts.

 

“Sell them.”

 

“You have to have a hundred to get a liter of water.”

 

“Yeah, but every one counts.”

 

The yellow bar blinks, finished and Tosser climbs to his feet; “Well, you need to find a place to lay up for a couple gamedays. Should be fully healed by this time tomorrow. Unless you’ve got the cash to spare.”

 

Max wasn’t going to PAY the game to heal him. He wasn’t really invested that much in it yet. Didn’t know if he would ever be.

 

“Your knee’s fucked though,” Tosser says, “You’ll probably have to trade for a brace or something.”

 

“Killfish AFK!” sounds in the background

 

“FISH!” Tosser and the woman and a few others in the background say. Someone giggles.

 

The woman rummages through her bag and pulls something out, hands it to Dag.

 

“Ooo!” Dag’s voice kicks up half an octave in excitement; “Where’d you find Lima Beans!”

 

“Trade… Lots of seeds coming out of the East lately. I’m thinking of mounting a search party. You should come.”

 

“Any fruit?”

 

“Not that I’ve seen, sorry.”

 

Dag puts them away.

 

The error message blinks away and Max types as quickly as he can. ‘What do you do with seeds?’ He hits the U button and regrets it when his health ticks down again, decides it would be best to just lie there like a slug.

 

“Oh, he’s alive!” Dag snorts; “Well, people usually eat them… But if you’ve got good earth you can plant them. Why? Do you have some?”

 

He checks his inventory, just to be safe, ‘Lentils’.

 

“Those grow nice in my cave… I’ll trade you for them,” She rummages and rummages and rummages, “I’ll give you a flare gun I stole off Furiosa last week for them.”

 

“So, that’s where that went.”

 

Max expected her to take it back, but she didn’t.

 

Tosser went to his bag and dropped something on Max’s chest. When he clicked on it the description named it as an antibiotic. “Gotta take that or you’ll get sick again. I swear, it’s like the developers had nothing better to do but think of ways to fuck with us,” Tosser walked away.

 

Dag laughed. “Reality.”

 

“I have to get back to the crew, if those guys come back let me know. And Scav, don’t let the Reality thing get to you, the game’s worth it, just tough it out, make sure you do your homework before you play and get outside every once and a while—“

 

‘I’m 38.’

 

Furiosa let out a startled laugh; “Okay, that works too. Sorry,” She hummed nervously; “Well, at least I know I’m not the oldest player around now.”

 

“Joe’s older than you,” Dag grumbled.

 

“I still have my money on him being some twelve-year-old with a cheap voice changer.”

 

“Don’t care how old he is, he’s a pervert and I hope he gets dysentery.”

 

Max chokes on his coffee.

 

Furiosa hums in agreement but says nothing. “Think you can get him back into the car alone?”

 

“Yeah. Thanks for the seeds.”

 

It’s easy to get him back into the car, and by the time they’re halfway back to Dag’s cave Max’s health has recovered enough that he can move around a little. Which proves useful when a car that looks like a rusted hedgehog launches itself off a sand dune practically on top of them.

 

“BUZZARDS!” Dag’s voice becomes shrill and unpleasant.

 

The Buzzards are vicious, shooting and ramming the car with their spikes. Some pierce through the side of the car and slice into Dag’s arm and leg. She tosses a grenade into their window slit and jerks the car hard to the right.

 

Just as the first one explodes a second car appears, this one has a yellow health bar above it and a voice to go along with it.

 

Max doesn’t know what language the kid is speaking, can’t tell truthfully. Doesn’t care honestly. He aims and shoots and aims and shoots, it does next to nothing. He has a lance tip in his inventory, it looks like a pipe bomb. He hesitates, then throws it out the window in front of the car.

 

Dag thinks it’s great.

 

The player doesn’t survive the wreck and Dag loots his body and car. “It’s fine, he’ll respawn in a few minutes. Lost his car though—“ She salvages it, laughs and dances on his mangled corpse. “Ooo, he’s got a cache of food! Lizards, better lizards—Ew, long pork. Bean paste—AH! He’s got Citadel water!” She climbs out of the wrecked car and comes back to Max gives him a bottle of it. It looks different than the water he already has. The bottle sparkles when he checks the detail of it.

 

“Citadel water restores HP faster and boosts your immunity to Wretch,” Dag chomps into a couple lizards and shares the bean paste; “What you really need is fruit. The fresher the better.”

 

She maneuvers the car back to her cave and climbs out; “Well, I guess you can escape now. Don’t come back,” She says it with the same tone as one would say; ‘Drive carefully’ or ‘I’ll see you later’.

 

Max finds it kind of endearing, but he says nothing. He tries to move, is able to stand but walking is particularly difficult, he’s limping pathetically, gets around the car and into the driver’s seat, has the option;

 

**Stay.**

**Escape.**

 

He hits Escape and the edges of his screen turn kind of yellow gray, guitar music revs up. It sounds ridiculous.

 

Dag’s character starts snarling and stomping and waving her fists, but she herself just laughs; “I look like my mum!” She cackles; “It won’t stop until you drive off.”

 

He grunts and drives away, can hear her cackling and her character raging until her blip disappears from his map.

 

Yellow words blink on the screen; **‘Escape Success!’ +10 XP**

 

He drives along quietly for a while, sees some familiar bombed out shapes amid the sand dunes. The detail is kind of amazing. Old high voltage lines nothing but crumpled rusty towers. Sand dunes have eclipsed part of the main highway heading west and there’s a crashed airplane protruding from the side of one, just a blackened husk.

 

That’s about the time the car starts spluttering and he realizes he’s got only two units of Guzz left. He wonders absently what will happen if he runs out in the middle of the desert.

 

Considering he’s died from infection in a video game, he’s willing to bet he’d simply run out of Guzz and just sit there.

 

After a moment he considers it, the consequences of the game. Most of the rules here are reality based. The zombies, however farfetched, are more or less realistic. They’re not walking dead, but instead people infected with a horrible virus. And as for the magic aspect of the game… Well, he’s a Cop. He worked second on a case with a psychic informant once. It was scary and unexplainable because he and the first had sat there and watched the man speak, were privy to things that this man couldn’t possibly know and yet had.

 

What was to say that a nuclear fallout wouldn’t actually cause people to experience things like that. The diseases the War Boys came down with were realistic. Cancers and deformities. It was all plausible. The consequences real as if the world around him were fact.

 

It—it was mad! It was awe inspiring. He liked it and was terrified by it at the same time, because as farfetched as it appeared to casually look at it, when you thought about it, when you picked up on the subtleties and complexities of the world today… It was damned near inevitable.

 

It was scary as fuck, that was for sure, even without sixty foot monsters and magic spells. It was scary in a similar way Bioshock had been scary, because it was only people and the horrible things they would and will do when there is no order and law to prevent them.

 

It was anarchy! The cop in Max was appalled and wanted to quit… The gamer wanted to shoot things… And Max… Max just didn’t really know which to think, if anything. It was kind of overwhelming. No quests that he’d found, aside from the one Slit mentioned. No plot, no purpose other than Survival. It was too close to the black thoughts that slid into his brain at night when the bed seemed too big and too empty and his fingers found old scars on his ribs and scalp. When he found himself pressing his lips to his knuckles and wishing for things he knew were impossible.

 

He runs out of Guzz, grips his shotgun and watches the game sun sink below the horizon.

 

**Keep Watch?**

**Sleep for the Night?**

**Scrap Demon Rod?**

 

It’s silent.

 

No ambiance noise aside from the distant wind and the hiss of sand. There are no voices of players, no engines, no guitar.

 

It’s eerie and cold, bleached gray by the moon and so incredibly real.

 

Max thinks if he bought a good enough set of headphones that he could drive himself crazy with sensory deprivation. He’d read about that once, people going crazy because of silence.

 

And then there’s the sound of an engine. Faint but growing louder—engines—voices.

 

“Stop it! J-just stop! GO AWAY!”

 

“Get her! Come on!”

 

“WITNESS ME!”

 

“WITNESS!”

 

“Slit, on her right!”

 

Slit? Max peered out the car window.

 

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE! WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS!”

 

He can make out the voices plainly now, laughing, three or four boys and a girl— He clicks his navigation map and spots the skull shaped blips moving off to his left. A quick pan and he could barely see the dust trails. Was there a zoom option? Binoculars?

 

He checks his inventory, winds up climbing out and onto the gunner’s perch. There’s a scope on the big machine gun on top of the car. He spins it around and has to give the game developers some credit because it’s a damned good recreation of a fifty-cal scope. Just a little fuzzy and black at the edges. It’s grayed out through the lenses, but Max can see a girl on a motor bike and a car chasing her.

 

It’s all shiny silver and chrome but Max recognizes the shape of it, snorts because there’s one like it sitting in his fucking driveway. It’s as he’s tracking the movement of the car toward himself that a yellow status bar appears, it jogs up and down and up and down and crosshairs appear on the War Boys in the car, and on the car itself.

 

Max hovers his mouse over the status bar.

**Range Meter; Try to fire when the meter is full for better long distance accuracy.**

 

He can shoot the fuckers!

 

It takes a few tries. But by the third shot the HP bar above the passenger War Boy flashes from full to zero and his fucking chest explodes.

 

“FUCKING HELL!” One of the boys shouts.

 

“HOLY SHIT! HOLY SHIT WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT!” It must be the player he’d just shot; “No—NONONO! I was Chromed! Fucking FUCK!”

 

Slit is in the lancer’s perch, Max recognizes the scars. “Run that bitch down!” He shouts, “She’s running us into a trap! Pierce, you scan the hills, she’s got someone ‘round here somewhere trying to snipe us!”

 

The dead War Boy’s player is still cursing shrilly; “What just happened! What the FUCK just happened!”

 

“There on the hill!”

 

Slit’s character pounds a fist on the roof of the car and shouts; “FANG IT! FANG IT!”

 

Flames erupt from the exhaust tubes on the car’s sides and it turns right toward Max, abandoning the girl they were chasing.

 

Max aims but the car is swerving and it takes four shots as the distance between them rapidly evaporates before he manages to put a bullet through Slit’s shoulder.

 

“SHIT!” He shouts and his character flies off the back of the car and dies of a broken neck. Max can hear him cursing from next door; “Who just sniped me! Who are you! I'll find you! You little CUNT! I'LL FIND YOU!”

 

“Is Cooper still cryin’?” The driver says and leans out the window with a handgun, but that does next to nothing and Max puts another round through his head.

 

“Fuck me…” The car cuts hard to the right and spins out. Pierce is by far less upset than either Slit or the Chromed Cooper.

 

“Yeah, he’ll get over it, had to go beg his girlfriend for the credit card. Shouldn’t’ve chromed-up. I told him not to… You don’t go Historic on raids! Only on the Fury Road!”

 

“Meh,” The driver slurps something; “I’ll hit the bog and respawn… Wanna run the Gastown Circuit with Evans and Jumper or the Thunderdome?”

 

“’Dome sounds good… We’ll get that bitch tomorrow.”

 

Their bodies don’t go away, but Slit’s voice cuts out, as does the driver’s. Max stands there tottering with his health ticking down slowly -1…-1…-1 then climbs down from the gunner’s perch and sits on the back of the car until his health’s recovered.

**Rescue Mission Success! +3 XP**

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	4. Shake Rattle and Roll

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**CAPABLE**

 

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He’s Salvaging through the bodies when he hears the engine. Scans the map and finds one lone blip moving slowly toward him. He hefts the Infield rifle he’s got off Slit’s corpse and peers through the cracked scope.

 

It’s the motor bike. It stops, just out of his range, but close enough that he can hear the player’s voice.

 

“Thank you,” She says. “I don’t know who you are, but thank you.”

 

She sounds young. Not as young as Dag, but still young.

 

He types, doesn’t know if she’ll see it since she’s not in the same screen as he is, but types anyway because he feels like he should. ‘Not a problem.’

 

After a moment, during which he Salvages the car and hums in a pleased manner he gets a reply.

 

“Oh,” She says, “You don’t have a mic?”

 

‘No.’

 

“Uhm… Are you looking for a crew?”

 

‘No.’

 

“Ah,” She sounds almost disappointed. “Lone Road Warrior! That’s cool.”

 

He snorts. Kids still say that? Cool? Maybe she’s older than he thought.

 

“Could I… uhm… Could I hire you?”

 

‘Hire me?’

 

“For a mission.”

 

He hesitates. Can’t take the fifty-cal off the car and has to leave those bullets behind, but takes what he can from it and puts it into the Interceptor-hybrid he’s salvaged. ‘What mission?’

 

“Will you shoot me if I come closer?”

 

‘No.’

 

“Promise?”

 

‘Promise.’

 

“How do I know you’re not lying? Boys in this game are awful. They’re always awful.”

 

His brows draw down.

 

“The ones you shot there? They hunt me down every day, shoot me or run me over and take my stuff. This is the first time in WEEKS that I’ve gone a whole day without having to respawn.”

 

‘I won’t shoot you. But, just so you know I’m 38.’

 

“Oh, you’re here for trading paint then?”

 

‘What?’

 

“The game sex?”

 

‘No,’ If he wanted to watch sex he could peruse the rest of the internet. That’s what it was for, isn’t it?

 

“Are you a woman?” Her voice sounds kind of surprised, pleased maybe.

 

‘No.’

 

“And yet you’re not here for the game sex?”

 

‘No, just the game.’

 

She hums, “What’s your name? Your username’s blank.”

 

‘It didn’t let me pick one.’

 

“That’s weird. Maybe it’s a glitch,” She climbs back onto her bike and rides over. “I’m Capable of Mayhem.”

 

The sun is starting to come up over the edge of the desert, the gamenight over and he gets his first good look at the girl’s avatar.

 

She is wearing black baggy pants and boots and a net shirt that looks to be made of chainmail over a tank top. She has welding goggles on her head, and a big yellow/gray neck scarf. Her hair is a similar color and pulled into two braids, one on either side of her face.

 

He hovers his mouse over her Health bar and sees her name in gray letters and underscores and a dropdown menu that details her as a Novice Blackthumb Scavenger and a few other details about her character's strengths. Tries it to himself and there no name. He doesn’t really mind, he was never good at picking usernames to begin with. His email address is evidence enough of that.

 

“Anyway,” The girl says, “There’s a cave network not far from here, and I found this underground town in it! The people there are starving but there’s a scientist from the old world, and SHE says that if I can bring back food and water she’ll give me a vaccination against Wretch—Which would be fantastic because then I could go to the Citadel and see Miss Giddy! I’ve already got coper for it—I heard you have to give her a bunch of coper to bypass the alarm and get her out of the vault—“

 

Max can’t keep up with her; ‘Wait. Scientist?’

 

“Yeah! In the caves!” Her avatar puts her hands on her hips; “It’s the point of the game! Didn’t you talk to the Keeper of Tales in Bartertown?”

 

His fingers hover over the keys.

 

Capable’s hand comes to her face and a soft yellow glow starts around her. Above her head a gray drop shape appears.

 

“Shit,” She says and rummages in her pouch. Comes out with a bottle of brown water and chugs it. “The Keeper of Tales is the NPC in Bartertown—Oh, are you doing the quests or just Scaving?”

 

‘Didn’t even know there were any quests.’

 

“Oh yeah! There’s loads! But it keeps saying I don’t have the XP to do the interesting ones… I mean, I’ve read the breakdowns, I know you’ve gotta see the Keeper of Tales before you can start doing quests, and you’ve gotta do them in order, but they’re so boring! I don’t want to collect rubber gaskets and firewood! I want to find out who killed the world!”

 

‘Wasn’t it nuclear war?’

 

“That’s what they want you to think!”

 

Max didn’t really appreciate the cryptic answer but ceded that it would be interesting to figure out. He liked the game enough to try and figure out what it was about.

 

The Interceptor had a full tank of guzz and two extra cans in the back. He climbed in and followed Capable back toward Bartertown.

 

“If you take the steering wheel off the car nobody can steal it,” Capable parked her bike beside him and climbed off. She unpacked things from the bike’s bags and waited as he climbed out to follow. “What happened to make you limp?”

 

‘Bad knee.’

 

“Aw,” She walked ahead a few paces and waited for him to catch up. “You can probably barter for a brace before we go see the Keeper’.”

 

‘Nothing to trade.”

 

“I’m sure you have something.”

 

He peers through his inventory, ‘No.’

 

“You could trade paint.”

 

‘What?’

 

“You can like, have sex for trade.”

 

Max bristled. Typed a colon and a left hand bracket, he’d seen that done before and the little man on the screen crossed his arms and shook his head the symbol floating above him for half a moment then evaporating.

 

“It’s not like it’s real sex,” Capable said, her foot tapped. “At least men can’t get pregnant.”

 

‘You can get pregnant in the game?’

 

“Oh, yeah! You can have families too! You should really take a look at the handbook.”

 

Max rubbed a hand over his face and shook his head; ‘Reality.’

 

Capable giggled, “If you do it with the NPCs they don’t show it.”

 

‘I’m not trading paint.’

 

“Well you need a brace or you’ll limp around like that the rest of the game.”

 

‘I could steal it.’

 

She snorted; “Good luck! You’ll get your hand cut off!”

 

Max grumbled to himself and limped past her, zoomed back to scan the town for some kind of blacksmith or something. It wasn’t that he was uncomfortable with the idea of sex, far from it actually. He just thought the idea of videogame characters doing it was absurd.

 

“Just, can we hurry?” Capable said and she sounded genuinely uncomfortable. “I don’t like being in towns and stuff. War Boys’ll chase me.”

 

‘Shoot them.’

 

“I don’t have a gun.”

 

Max’s head rolled on his neck; “You don’t have a—“ He growled at the screen and tapped a little harder against the keys than he should have, plucked one of the nine-millimeters from his inventory and muttered. “Don’t have a gun… She doesn’t have a gun in a game about surviving the apocalypse,” He made a hissing sound in frustration, made sure the gun was loaded and handed it to her.

 

‘Now you have a gun.’

 

“I thought you didn’t have anything to trade!”

 

‘I’m not trading, I’m giving it to you.’

 

She said nothing but tucked the gun away, followed him a little more closely.

 

He walked away, toward a stall where a large man was working with scrap bits of metal. The player behind the face was a young boy, likely about fifteen or so.

 

‘Leg brace,’ Max typed as quickly as he could; ‘Do you make them or know how?’

 

“Why don’t you just talk?” The kid said. “Typing’s stupid.”

 

‘I don’t have a mic.”

 

“Why not?”

 

‘Do you have a leg brace or not?’

 

“Jeez, what’s your problem,” The kid tapped noisily on his keyboard; “You need a design for one from a black thumb and I can make it…” He paused and his voice became sly; “Iiif the girl shows me her titties.”

 

“Ugh, you’re such a pig!”

 

“Don’t be a little bitch, it’s not like I’m asking for pictures or anything.”

 

‘Leave her alone. Where do I find a black thumb.’

 

“Find one yourself. It’s sluts like her that’s ruining this game. Can’t even take a joke.”

 

Max walked away, hadn’t ever really noticed how some gamers treated girls. Of course, he’d never played a game with actual people before. It had always just been him and his controller and the console.

 

‘Are they always like that?’

 

“Huh? Oh, the kid? That’s pretty tame actually… That’s why I’m excited for the upgrade in January. They’re putting up new servers, so if there’s assholes in one I can just jump to another server. That and they’re expanding the map.”

 

‘People treat you like that all the time?’

 

“Yeah,” She said it as if she were commenting on the weather. “My cousins were some of the first players, but more assholes started filtering in when they realized you could have sex in the game and by the time I was old enough to have an account nobody in my family played anymore… So I’ve kind of been wandering around.”

 

‘How long have you been playing?’

 

She was quiet for a minute, a lizard scurried between them and out of sight; “Only about three weeks… I get killed a lot. And after five murders it locks you out for twenty-four hours,” She sighed, “At least we don’t have to pay for lives. That would suck. My uncle wouldn’t let me play anymore if that were the case.”

 

Max leaned his jaw on his hand and stretched his legs out under the edge of his desk. ‘How old are you, really.’

 

She sighed audibly; “I’m sixteen…”

 

He scrubbed a hand over his head; “Shit…” His shoulders sagged; ‘Come with me.’

 

“You haven’t seen the Keeper of Tales!”

 

‘Later.’

 

She followed him quietly until he made it to his car; “You’re not gonna like, kill me, are you?”

 

‘No.’

 

“Then what are we doing? I don’t really want to find out if you can be raped in this game.”

 

“Fuck a duck…” Max wanted to smash something, had to take a deep breath before he could articulate himself enough to type; ‘There’s a girl in the game, she helped me a bit ago. I think you should meet.’

 

It wasn’t a long drive and Max could hear muted music coming from Capable’s headset, the soft sounds of her drinking something and crunching crisps.

 

Dag’s cave seemed abandoned, and when he tried to step inside he got a warning.

 

**It appears this cave is occupied.**  

**Enter Cave System?**

**No, I don’t think so.**

**Yeah, let’s check it out.**

 

‘Just wait here.’ He went into the cave.

 

It was dark, and damp and five or so limping steps into the cave something silvery swung down from above with a rattling sound and took Max’s head off. His body flopped to the ground and spurted blood from the wound of his neck.

 

The edges of his screen went pale and yellow letters bled into existence along with a psychotic laughing noise; **DECAPITO!**

 

“Huh,” He worked his tongue at the inside of his jaw, brows knit slightly disturbed.

 

**Respawn?**

**Quit while you're ahead.**

 

He reappeared outside the cave just as Dag came running.

 

“WHAT FOOL DARES DISTURB THE LAIR OF THE DAG!” Her voice was shrill and when she appeared out of the cave mouth her eyes were glowing and black veins were visible on her arms, hands turned to elongated sharp black claws.

 

Max kind of expected her to breathe fire.

 

“Oh, it’s you again,” Her voice was softer and after a few clicks her character was back to normal. Long white hair and pale features. Tunic and boots. “Still gimping around are ya?” She made a chuffing noise; “Who’s the redhead?”

 

Max physically shrugged; ‘Her name’s Capable. She needs help doing a quest for some scientist.’

 

“Eh?” Dag sounded genuinely confused. “You’re like a level _nothing!_ How are you doing quests! You’re lucky you haven’t been kidnapped by Joe! Your crew’s just using you for battle fodder!”

 

“I don’t have a crew, I’ve been trying to run water and supplies on my bike.”

 

Dag says nothing for a five count; “You’re barmy. Need a trade rig to do that,” A sigh, “War Boys been chasing you from Bartertown?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Alright…” She strode toward Capable; “Where’d you get the new car. Scav?”

 

‘Took it.’

 

“Did you Scrap the other one?”

 

‘Just left it in the desert.’

 

Dag groaned; “You’ve got to scrap it, or it’ll just sit there waiting to get stolen and cost you XP,” She rummaged in her pouch for a few minutes, “Right, if you go to your inventory you can glitch it right to us if you click on your guzz and say you want to fill it.”

 

He tried it, and sure enough the Demon Rod appeared and he started pouring guzz into it.

 

“I didn’t know you could do that!” Capable sounded amazed.

 

“If you don’t want it anymore, I’d gladly take this off your hands!” Dag climbed onto the gunner’s perch.

 

‘A trade? Sure.’

 

“What do you want?”

 

‘Know where I can find a black thumb?’

 

Dag made a low sound of incomprehension; “Scav… You ARE a black thumb.”

 

‘I am?’

 

“And they call me mad,” Dag crunched into something, the wet chomp of it over the mic sounded like an apple; “What do you need a black thumb for?”

 

“Draw up a plan for his knee brace,” Capable was perusing Dag’s collection of pets.

 

“OH! All you need is drafting paper,” She rummaged in her bag and threw something at him.

 

It shone on the ground like a little light and when he picked it up saw an image of blue drafting sheets.

 

**Use Drafting Paper?**

**Yes.**

**No.**

 

The screen faded to a close up of the paper with dropdown menus. It was just a manner of clicking through his options. There weren’t many.

 

He found prosthetics among the options, and below it arm device, and leg device. But the most he could do with it was a sketch.

 

“Aww,” Dag said once the sketch was completed; “Maybe you’ve got to be a Master Black Thumb before you can make a good draft…  Sorry, Scav.”

 

He grunted even though she couldn’t hear him. At least he was on the right track.

 

"Well!" Dag climbed behind the wheel of the Demon Rod, "There's only three places you can find a Master Blackthumb. We'll take care of that first, then work on getting a rig to do the water quest."

 

Capable made a muffled cheering noise and a moment later a black box appeared in the middle of Max's screen.

 

**[Capable_of_Mayhem has invited you to join her crew. Do you accept?]**

**Yes. No.**

 

Max heard himself making a low noise in the roof of his mouth, "Uhhh."

 

"Come on!" Capable was swinging a leg over her bike; "Don't be a wet blanket!"

 

'I could be your dad.'

 

"Yeah, so?" Capable rode her bike in circles and cooed quietly at the animals near Dag's cave.

 

"You're not going to make this weird, are you?" Dag said, voice pitched uncomfortably; "It's not like she asked to join your friend's list. 's just a crew for the mission."

 

He sighed and tapped the keyboard; 'Just the mission.'

 

"There's a good scav."

 

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	5. Lips I so oft' have kissed

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**FURIOSA**

 

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Minnesota wasn’t a bad place, but in Furiosa’s opinion, nothing could compare to Alaska. Yeah, there was snow, and cold and inhospitable climes, but it was HOME. Green and wild.

 

She’d lived in the bush most of her childhood, until her mother got sick.

 

Furiosa leaned a lot about herself, her mother, and the ways of the world that winter.

 

Cancer, the doctor had said. Just said it, blunt and tactless like an asshole. “It’s metastasized and spread to your lymph nodes, so there isn’t really much we can do at this point. You should get your affairs in order… Think of your daughter. The bush isn’t the place for a sixteen-year-old girl, especially one with disabilities.”

 

Furiosa had grown up like this, had never known anything different. She knew hardship and struggle and pain. Knew the taste of the morning dew on pine and grass and the frigid bite of water fresh from a spring some twenty-five hundred feet above sea-level. Furiosa had been born without part of her left arm, but she knew nothing of disability.

 

She knew there were things she couldn’t really manage in the traditional sense, but she could still do them. Could still climb trees with the neighbor children, still go fishing, still hunt and get into fist-fights with the boys in the towns. Could still help build and make and create. She just did it differently.

 

Furiosa didn’t know disability until her mother got sick, until they had to move from the bush and into the city. She didn’t know the words ‘You can’t do that’ until she was faced with forests of concrete and buildings that scratched the clouds to ribbons. She didn’t know the burn of futility until she realized, on the third day of January, that her mother wasn’t going to survive this.

 

She had her mother’s body cremated. Smuggled her ashes out in a shoebox while she tried to hitchhike back to the bush, back HOME.

 

The truck driver was a woman, wasn’t going to drop the girl off in the middle of nowhere in six feet of snow.

 

“Just wait,” She’d said. “The snow’s on now, you’d never make it on your own up there—“

 

“Yes I can,” She’d spat the words like venom.

 

“I don’t doubt that you can survive at home, no… I doubt your ability to hike almost a hundred miles in sub-zero temperatures at night!” The woman had a toothpick, called herself Kay-Dee. She was old even then, wizened and had a fern growing in a coffee mug on the dash of her rig. “Ride with me until the snow melts and when it does I’ll make sure you get home.”

 

Furiosa didn’t trust easily. Had learned in the four months she’d been away from the bush, that people outside of her own couldn’t be trusted. They said one thing and meant something completely different. They wore masks and false kindness and showed their teeth instead of smiled. People were more like animals the closer to ‘civilization’ you got.

 

Kay-Dee didn’t smile. Didn’t offer kindness, not like the people in the cities did. “I grew up in the fifties and sixties… Life’s not kind to women—And it was especially unkind to white women who fell in love with black men. I may not understand completely, but I get it.”

 

She taught Furiosa to drive, snapped and snarled like the toothless bulldog that lazed about on the sleeper bunk in the back of the rig’s cabin.

 

Kay-Dee was a small woman, but could she pack a wallop! She smoked a stout little blue glass pipe, drank, cursed, and spoke fondly of the time she’d shot a man for trying to hijack her rig with her sleeping daughter inside. “Eighty-three. Florida… I was hauling cross-country at the time… Man asked for a ride, I said no so he came at me with a knife and I took his hand off. BANG!” She made a finger gun at Furiosa and jolted her hand up like recoil.

 

She didn’t treat Furiosa like there was anything wrong with her. “Their ‘ent anything wrong with you! So you only got one hand, most fools with two don’t have any sense, so I think you’re ahead of the curve.”

 

Kay-Dee also liked truck stop arcade games. Would plug quarters in and stand there for hours, let teenaged boys crowd up beside her with their eyes wide and their mouths slack watching her decimate their high scores like it was nothing.

 

When spring came Kay-Dee gave her a jacket, leather with a fur collar and the left sleeve pinned up with a button made of bone carved to look like a wolf’s head. She drove Furiosa home and helped her spread her mother’s ashes amid the trees and grass and wilderness.

 

The neighbors looked at her sadly, the boys she used to spar with treated her like glass.

 

“What was the city like,” Val said, eyes dreamy. “I’ve always wanted to go to the city!”

 

“Why? It’s awful. It smells and people are horrible.”

 

“Better than staying here!” She’d said with a wrinkle of her nose. “I want a house with electricity, and running water. I want to go swimming even in the winter.”

 

“You’ll hate it,” She said earnestly. “It’ll be fun for a week, and then you’ll hate it.”

 

Val went to the city on her eighteenth birthday, came back married a year later… Her husband hated the bush. Called it dirty and ugly.

 

“There’s so much mud! I mean look! This is fine for a weekend, or a yearly camping retreat—but you don’t even have real bathrooms! And the women!” He put up a hand; “No offense, Furiosa… But have you even heard of a hairbrush?”

 

Val looked at the ground, ashamed.

 

They went back to the city.

 

That summer a wildfire destroyed their town. Destroyed the trees Furiosa had grown climbing, destroyed her home and all the memories she had of her mother.

 

It took everything.

 

So she left. Packed what she’d been able to escape the flames with, twisted the scorched band of her hair until it crunched and snapped off in her hand like a broken rope. She walked a hundred and fifteen miles out of the bush and everything was burned, burned away until she reached the highway.

 

She spent two weeks sleeping hidden near a truck stop. Washed truck windows and headlights for spare change. Nearly broke the jaw of a trucker who tried to stick his hand down her pants while her hand was busy cleaning around his license plate.

 

She went inside and played Mortal Kombat until she was out of quarters.

 

“You got taller,” Kay-Dee pressed a coin up against the ledge of the screen, claiming the next game.

 

Furiosa turned, swiped her stump against the wetness around her eyes. “What’re you doing here?”

 

“I heard about the fire… I’m so sorry, kiddo,” She pulled Furiosa down into a long tight hug. “What can I do?”

 

“You can buy me another level?”

 

Kay-Dee laughed and patted her shoulders, pushed a couple quarters into her hand and smiled through tears. “Anything.”

 

She rode with Kay-Dee for two years, until she was old enough to get her CDL’s.

 

Kay-Dee’s truck was a monster of a thing, a remnant of the seventies. A Kenworth W-925 with blanket seats and an engine that could power through anything. She’d had it modified with a sleeper, nothing fancy, just room for a bed and a shelf. It was painted white and green and she swore she’d had sex with Elvis in the back.

 

Furiosa took her drivers test in that truck.

 

Kay-Dee retired on Furiosa’s twenty-eighth birthday. The odometer had rolled over nine times in that truck and she’d gone through three engines. It had never been in a wreck, never been off the road for more than three weeks since it came off the line.

 

When Kay-Dee retired she continued driving. Said she was going to do what she’d always done. Keep moving.

 

Furiosa bought her own truck at an auction the year she turned thirty. It wasn’t a necessity, she was currently working hauling freight for a big box store, but the hours were hell and she was getting sick of the corporate bullshit. Kay-Dee had been clucking on the phone and telling her she just needed to go into business for herself for six months now.

 

So, on the old woman’s seventy-sixth-birthday she’d gone to an auction with Kay-Dee, as was tradition. If there was one thing Kay-Dee loved more than driving it was car auctions and sitting up late playing Warcraft and threatening Furiosa with her blue pipe. Kay-Dee had a soft spot for old cars, young men, and the rumble of a Kenworth beneath her.

 

And there it was. Lot 294. They’re not allowed to touch, but they can look at it.

 

Kay-Dee pulls on a pair of thick glasses and shoves a mirror on a stick under the rig’s front wheels, walks completely around it snarling and snorting at the men who give her dirty looks for having the audacity to be at ‘Their’ auction. “Engine looks like shit,” She mutters toward Furiosa’s elbow. “Frame’s good,” She poked her pencil between her lips and chewed on it. “Solid transmission. Suspension could use some work.”

 

Thirty-five hundred dollars later, Furiosa had her own truck, a newer version of Kay-Dee’s with a sleeper unit, black and chrome with spots where the paint had corroded. The upholstery was cracked, the springs in the driver’s seat dead—it would kill her kidneys to drive this thing until she could afford to fix it, but—“

 

“Call it a present,” Kay-Dee said handing her back her check. “For giving an old bird something to fly for.”

 

It was tough going the first year. Freelance trucking… Not many people interested.

 

Until she moved to Minnesota to be closer to Kay-Dee’s home base, whereupon placing her ad in the newspaper she got a quick reply. It wouldn’t be fantastic wages, but it was work under her own terms. Work she could be proud of, work that wasn’t unappreciated.

 

A microbrewery needed a driver. Mostly just the tristate area. Minnesota, South Dakota, North Dakota, and in the summers the festival circuit.

 

And pretty much all the free beer Furiosa could drink.

 

The owners didn’t know what to think about a truck driver with only one arm, a woman truck driver at that. At first one of them didn’t want to even interview her—

 

“You’ll at least need to get a prosthetic,” The guy had said.

 

“Dude!” The taller of the three elbowed the fat one hard in the gut. “What did we just say about fucking OSHA?”

 

The bearded one with glasses had his hands pressed together, “We are so sorry!”

 

Dave, Anderson, and Ben owned Bad Bender Brewery. They needed a driver—actually were kind of desperate, which worked in Furiosa’s favor. None of the bars they dispensed through were more than a two-day drive away. They needed a driver because they’d recently branched out and expanded their brewing capabilities.

 

“And we can’t fit everything in Dave’s van anymore,” Ben—beard guy—said. “But we have an image to uphold, yanno?”

 

Furiosa cocked a brow at him. Wondered, not for the first time, if coming to the interview in slacks, flats and a lavender blouse—professional wear the training facility had insisted she wear to all meetings and interviews—was somehow giving these men the wrong idea about who she was.

 

“Now, you said in your ad that you have your own truck?” He twisted his fingers warily.

 

“Yeah,” She tilted her head to the side, “But I don’t know if we’re the exact ‘image’ you’re looking for.”

 

“Is there any way we can see the truck? Just a quality inspection.”

 

She’d laughed, amused and a little angry. “Sure… How about I come back in an hour? Give me some time to fix my hair.”

 

They’d all agreed, grimly, to meet again in an hour, after lunch.

 

Furiosa parked her rig between Anderson-the-asshole’s neon green Prius and Dave’s silver Lexus. Busied herself under the hood making sure everything was in top shape and stared down her nose at them when they returned from lunch to find her streaked with engine grease in a Black Sabbath t-shirt and jeans with holes in the knees. “Sushi good fellas?”

 

Within a year the brewery put out special label BLACKTOP beer with an artist’s rendition of Furiosa’s truck on the side and they’d expanded distribution throughout the mid-west.

 

Anderson sold his third of the company back to Ben and Dave within two years—The logistics of owning and running a brewery were too much of a stress for him. He still hung around a lot, suggested ideas for new advertising campaigns, but the pressure of having to control it all was gone. It was fun again. He became less of an asshole and more of a quirky guy with a big mouth.

 

Ben and Furiosa dated for a while, but it seemed forced and uncomfortable and didn’t last much longer than it took for Ben to realize waking up beside a woman with a buzz-cut wasn’t as fulfilling as waking up next to man, no matter what kind of equipment she could procure.

 

Furiosa was afraid it would be awkward, but it wasn’t—thank SHIT. She liked her job, liked the guys—liked the new drivers they’d hired and put her in charge of. It was so much more relaxed than she thought was possible for commercial trucking. As long as you made your deliveries on time without damage you were gold.

 

And the beer wasn’t half bad!

 

It was a month into Furiosa’s third year working for Bad Bender when it happened. She came in for her shift and found Ben sitting behind his desk furiously clicking and muttering.

 

She swung around him to look, because even if he was looking at porn he wouldn’t try to hide it. He was strangely unashamed like that.

 

It was a videogame. Rather blocky but interesting.

 

“What’s this?”

 

“It’s a gameplay test… I’m registered with this company and got a lucky draw to test gameplay for an MMO beta they’re putting out in a couple months… Kind of like a Beta for a beta.”

 

“It looks cheap—“

 

He snorted; “It’s literally just something the crew threw together. They needed to see if the code supported the keyboard navigation as well as the controller they developed. It’s not meant to look pretty, it’s just a test.”

 

“So you’re just killing one another to see which input is better?”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“Sounds cool.”

 

“It is… You wanna try? I’ve gotta piss so bad right now!”

 

She snorted, “Sure.”

 

He tapped the Control key and typed a quick message; ‘AFK… mind if my friend takes over for a minute?’

 

There was a pause.

 

‘Bring him on!’

 

“Okay, you ever done MMO before?”

 

“I play Warcraft with Kay-Dee all the time.”

 

“Okay, good!” He drew an index card from under his keyboard and propped it up in front of the screen. “Those are your controls… You good?” He had the heel of his hand pressed into his crotch.

 

“I’m good!”

 

It was interesting. The fighting was tight, punches, kicks, guns, knives. Very similar to joystick arcade games with numbers and letters being specific moves.

 

Ben came back rubbing his hands on the legs of his jeans and muttering about paper towels. “How do you like it?” He leaned over her shoulder.

 

“It’d be easier with a controller, one handed isn’t ideal for the keyboard,” It wasn’t ideal for a controller either, but at least then she could use her stump. She climbed to her feet and gave Ben back his seat. “What’s this game about anyway?”

 

“Well, I can’t really tell you… Confidentiality agreement and all. But it sounds interesting. I think you’d like it… Kind of like apocalyptic Robin Hood or something. And it’s supposed to be entirely online, which is different… I think it’d go over better and run more smoothly if it was more like Warcraft, downloads and game discs. All online like this it’ll be a bitch on the servers and they won’t be able to get a lot of detail into it.”

 

“I don’t know, Gaia went over well.”

 

Ben snorted; “Gaia!” He rolled his eyes.

 

“Hey, you try living on my salary, with no ram, and still game—You get desperate!”

 

Ben grumbled; “Gaia,” under his breath.

 

“I was desperate, give me a break,” She smacked the back of his head with her stump and went to find some coffee.

 

The next morning Ben was on the computer again but he stopped her with a quick; “HEY!” And twirled in his chair, came back around with a big blue gift-bag and thrust it in her direction. “Do the world a favor,” He patted her hand; “Leave Gaia Online to the kids.”

 

“You bought me a computer?”

 

“I bought you a GAMING computer! That’s fucking Alien Ware! And you’ve got an advanced subscription to Wasteland. Enjoy.”

 

She joined when the game debuted six months later and plugged in the code Ben had given her. Found a specialty avatar designed just for her, if she wanted it, with the biggest Terminator arm she’d ever seen and sat there for thirty minutes grinning into her palm because Ben was an asshole and a good friend and she kind of wanted to smack him in his smug beardy face.

 

She had the option to change the command keys to whatever she wanted, to optimize use with only one hand on the keyboard. She played around a little, read the complicated graphic-novel of a back story to the game and slowly fell out of interest.

 

Months went by and she hadn’t touched the game, too busy with work and life in general.

 

And then the call came.

 

Kay-Dee was in New Mexico, in a hospital bed. Furiosa was the only contact she had listed.

 

Furiosa knew Kay-Dee had a daughter, they’d had a falling-out over something decades ago and hadn’t spoken since. She’d never questioned it, but the idea still stung. Hurt because Furiosa missed her own mother so much. Would give her arm for one more day with her.

 

Ben understood, Dave drove her to the airport.

 

Kay-Dee didn’t look sick. Not really. She smiled brightly beneath an oxygen cannula. Made a finger-gun and said; “Bang,” When Furiosa appeared in the doorway.

 

“What’re those tears for!” Kay-Dee said, eyes wide as if she just didn’t get it. Like she sometimes didn’t get the punchline to a joke, or didn’t quite grasp the sarcasm of Seinfeld. She brushed a thumb against Furiosa’s cheek, “I’ve had a good life! Nothin’ to cry about!” She shook her head, “It’s my own damned fault anyway. Liver’s just give up, they said.”

 

But it was more than that, Furiosa knew it, knew from the sound of the woman’s breathing.

 

Kay-Dee looked at her sidelong and her shoulders sagged; “They said it’s lung cancer… Nothin’ they can do.”

 

Furiosa seemed to crumple in on herself. It wasn’t fair—It just wasn’t fair.

 

“Now, you look at me… Bad things happen, alright? ‘s just the way things are. It doesn’t matter how they happen, just what you do afterward… Now I can sit here and cry about it, or I can jam the pedal to the floor and keep moving until I run out of gas.”

 

Furiosa looked up, face wet and eyes bloodshot.

 

“I don’t know how long I’ve got, but I don’t want to waste it sitting in a fucking hospital room when I can spend it with my girl!”

 

She tried to call Kay-Dee’s daughter, it took three days to get hold of her. Her name was Lang.

 

“My name’s Furiosa… I—I’m friends with your mother.”

 

“Oh?”

 

“Yeah, I—I just needed you to know that she’s sick. The doctors have only given her a few months.”

 

Lang took a deep breath and let it out; “Okay.”

 

“I can give you directions to where we are if—“

 

“No. No, that’s OK.”

 

She couldn’t hold her tongue; “What happened? Why are you two so… She’s dying, doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

 

Lang hummed quietly. “My mother was from a different generation, the relationship she had with my father wasn’t accepted it drove them away from the prospect of normality… She loved me—and I love her very much—but I don’t agree with how she raised me. I don’t agree with what I had to go through growing up… You don’t understand what it’s like to be raised in the back of a truck!”

 

“I do actually… Your mother took me in when I had nobody. She was everything I needed and more. A friend, a teacher… I just don’t understand—“

 

“And that’s OK,” Lang snuffed wetly; “I love my mother, but she didn’t know how to raise a child when she was only a child herself… She did her best and what was best was that I wasn’t there. I don’t resent her for that. After she left I grew up in a house, I had friends and comforts I couldn’t have had on the road. It was too dangerous for me out there, especially with her lifestyle. The drinking and the bars and the people… It took me years to come to terms with that, but it’s OK. She’s a free spirit, more so than I will ever be, and coming back now—especially now—It wouldn’t help her at all, it wouldn’t help me at all. It would just remind her of the one thing she couldn’t do—not because she didn’t try, but because it just didn’t work out that way.”

 

Furiosa understood that, understood that sometimes, no matter how you approached things, they didn’t work out the way you wanted.

 

“After my father was killed she saw roots as a cage—I’ve always seen them as a comfort… So she let me go. It took me until just recently to understand she’d given me what she couldn’t when she left,” Lang took a deep shuddering breath; “You are very much like her—more than that, you understand her. You get it… I never did and I likely never will—but that’s OK. It’s OK for people to be different. It’s okay for what sustains me to feel like a punishment for others, that’s what makes us human. We all have differences and it’s not right for me to try and make her into something she’s not.”

 

Furiosa felt a surge of pressure and wetness in her sinuses; “She loves you—“

 

“And I love her… I want her to have happiness in her last days, not feel trapped for my comfort. I want the memory I have of her to be of her laughing and smiling and doing what she loves! Not trapped in a hospital or the back bedroom wasting away behind glass.”

 

Ben, Dave, and even Anderson were understanding, told her to take all the time she needed.

 

Seventy-four days.

 

They visited every state, drank Bad Bender in nineteen of them, filled albums with photos and played dusty arcade games in the backs of every truck-stop that had them.

 

They visited Lang and her children, went to Disney World and laughed until they cried.

 

They went to Yosemite and laid out on the hood of Kay-dee’s rig and watched the stars until it was too cold and their breath turned to shimmering crystals in the air.

 

Then one morning Kay-Dee just didn’t wake up. Furiosa found her lying cool and smiling peacefully in her bed with her hands behind her head and her laptop in sleep mode beside her.

 

Kay-Dee left her the rig, and her dog. A mangy mutt of a thing they’d picked up somewhere in Iowa because it had been left at a truck stop by its previous owner. There wasn’t much money, life ate away at savings accounts and retirement funds. But it was enough to cover the cremation, enough to ship the photo albums and long letters Kay-Dee had written to her daughter on truck stop stationary.

 

Then Furiosa drove the rig home.

 

She took a week, for herself. Cleaned the rig from top to bottom to give herself something to do. Mourned the loss of her friend, mentor, and surrogate mother. Kay-Dee had never owned much, more from her own lack of desire for worldly possessions than any kind of self-restraint. Furiosa owned very little, more because if it wasn’t practical she had no use for it, than any kind of sentimentality. Everything she’d truly owned and loved had been destroyed in the fire back in the Alaskan bush. She’d not let herself get attached to much since then.

 

It didn’t hurt as much as she wanted it to, to sell Kay-Dee’s rig. One of the drivers for Bad Bender bought it, cherished it, brought his fiancé with him on runs since it was so much larger than the truck he’d owned previously.

 

Joy rose from the ashes. Hope flourished like the fern Furiosa had on her dashboard.

 

She bought a flatbed shorty with some of the money from the sale. A low slung hauler that had been decommissioned by a transport company in favor of a newer, sleeker model. She parked it behind the brewery, with permission, and started building.

 

Dave had given her the idea, had pulled his truck into the parking lot one day hauling a tiny house behind it. Had declared he’d broken the lease on his colonial and bought a house.

 

Ben had laughed, teased him over it, but the idea was viral.

 

Dave helped when he could and within two months Furiosa had a house on her flatbed. It dwarfed her apartment, but reminded her of the bush. Clean and simple with no frills save running water and a septic system. She’d been kind of spoiled over the years to a warm bathroom instead of a chilly outhouse.

 

It was practical, and simple, and it was hers. She could have a home—have roots—and still have the road.

 

She waited four months, until her apartment lease came up and didn’t renew it. Found help from Dave and Ben and the other drivers from work to move her few belongings into the tiny house and that was that.

 

Work helped. Kept her mind occupied, but the world seemed less vibrant without Kay-Dee in it. Warcraft wasn’t the same. Arcade games weren’t the same…

 

Wasteland filled the void. At first she played just to play, just to mindlessly scour the desert for quests and missions and battles that didn’t remind her of Kay-Dee. That changed when she started adapting into live as a War Girl.

 

Warcraft had its issues. Had groups and clans and guilds of men who were just assholes. She’d seen it everywhere. Wasteland was no worse, just different.

 

Some men found a woman—or discovered one of the male avatars was actually a woman—and they tortured them.

 

She could have gone her whole life not knowing you could be raped in a videogame, but she’d walked in on it.

 

A female player had chromed up during a fight and the men in her crew said they’d kill her avatar if she didn’t ‘Trade Paint’ with them. They stabbed and shot at her until her health was barely there.

 

“Guys, no! I’ve spent too much time in this game! You can’t do that! STOP IT!”

 

“Come on, it’s not like it’s real!”

 

“It’s just a game, get over yourself!”

 

“Do it or I’ll waste you!”

 

She’d snarled something, half in tears; “You guys are SICK!” And logged out. Her Avatar flashed and disappeared.

 

As far as Furiosa knew the girl hadn’t come back. She’d shot each of the boys in the head in her rage. “This is a GAME! She has every right to be here as you do, get the FUCK over yourselves!”

 

One of them had called her a mangled dyke bitch and she’d shot his corpse just for spite.

 

She kept her eyes on the War Girls after that and noticed the behavior wasn’t localized. By the end of her first solid year of gameplay on Wasteland ninety percent of the War Girls she’d played with were gone or dead and fewer than six remained.

 

It was the same in Bartertown, Gastown, and the Bullet Farm. Fewer and fewer female gamers with female avatars signed up and stuck around.

 

The overt language and violence toward women that some men and boys used wasn’t even the worst because some of them really thought they were being nice;

 

“I’m sorry, we can’t have a girl on our Crew. You might get offended by what we’re saying in battle and think we’re assholes.”

 

It took Furiosa almost two years to become an Imperator, when she’d seen newer male gamers make it in six months. And even then in the cage fights for control of the War Rig—A monster of a truck that lead the trade convoy to Bullet Farm and Gas Town from the Citadel—they would shout and Chrome up and throw themselves on her two and three at a time to keep her from winning.

 

She’d thought it was funny at first, that their masculinity was so easily threatened, but then it just got annoying. If they weren’t shouting that she was a dumb bitch, a cunt, or not a real gamer—It was because she only had one arm.

 

When the update came that allowed the VOIP option to be mass, whisper, and group only, well. It was everywhere. EVERYWHERE, ALL THE TIME!

 

“Why’d she do that to her hair, it looks ugly—She looks ugly—ugh, if you wanted to be a guy you should have just picked a guy.”

 

“That’s just gross—Nobody wants to look at that! Fuckin’ dyke.”

 

“Hey, HEY! You got a girlfriend? Can I watch?”

 

“You should learn to take a complement!”

 

“If you didn’t want the attention why did you dress like that!”

 

It got damned near intolerable… Until she met Ace.

 

Ace was in his forties, from Queensland and played with his two teenaged sons.

 

“No, I wouldn’t let my daughter play.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Everyone here? They’re all a bunch of savages and my girl doesn’t deserve that. She may not like it, but she doesn’t deserve to be made to feel badly about what she enjoys!”

 

Madeline was her name. She was thirteen and loved video games.

 

“What if you only let her play on your crew?”

 

“Eh?” Ace was a little hard of hearing, said he’d worked as a mechanic for too long his ears and his knees and his back were shot. “You need eight for a bartering crew. ‘s only me an’ the boys.”

       

“Well, you can count me in, and your daughter would make five,” Furiosa said, kicking the sand looking for treasure. Every so often you could find a lizard or something interesting. Mostly though it was broken washers or bolts. “I’ve got a couple War Girls who’d be interested. The guys in their time-zone are assholes.”

 

“They all are.”

 

She could only find one War Girl interested, and another man who didn’t play frequently enough to become a permanent member of the crew. They wound up just assimilating any player around at the time who was willing to play by their rules.

 

Ace’s daughter loved it. Made a War Boy she named Crusher. Her brothers Killfish and Tank were very protective, but she loved the game. Thrived— and unfortunately died Historic six months in.

 

“Love, it’s alright!” Ace had wrapped his arms around her tightly afterward, tried to make the pain that her character was gone a little softer. Furiosa had been able to hear the poor girl crying.

 

“Look! Look! See, look at that! My girl’s got her name cut into the Citadel for all the world to see!”

 

It had hurt. It may only have been a game, but Furiosa understood you got attached to the little person on the screen. They became an extension of you somehow. You cringed and flinched when they got hurt, you felt the burst of adrenaline when they were victorious. She offered, simply because it hurt in her chest. It wasn’t until about a month after that Renew Fees were introduced or Furiosa would have paid it then and there.

 

Madeline didn’t make a new character. She started playing another game online with her friends from school, got really interested in boys and decided Wasteland wasn’t her thing anymore.

 

Furiosa didn’t forget though, how gleeful the girl had been while playing. How she’d snarl and mutter and growl in excitement. For a while it really did feel like she’d lost a member of her crew, even though sometimes she could overhear the girl talking to her father or brothers while they played and knew she was well and happy and undiscouraged.

 

And then they met Morsov.

 

Mediocre Morsov… Poor guy couldn’t go a day without getting killed. He was smart though, liked his character enough not to chrome-up.

 

He got really—REALLY into the game though. BECAME his character.

 

Furiosa had a feeling he would be the kind of guy to LARP like she’d seen a few people do. The photos and video of them were all over the internet. The latest she’d seen was a Vine of a War Boy who’d gone into so much detail he’d made latex prosthetic scars to put on his chest and face and sprayed his mouth and teeth with what she dearly hoped was only silver cake frosting. He was on a farm of some sort and was running, shouting; “WITNESS MEEEEE! WITNESS MEEEEE!” After a flock of geese. One of the geese, a large black one—turned and started chasing him back and the boy ran right into the cameraperson with a shriek.

 

For a while Furiosa and Ace had tried to incorporate Morsov’s nephew into their crew, but the kid got angry easily and just started shooting stuff. He liked his oversized character and his oversized car and he tried to die historic almost every mission and wound-up whimpering and crying until his mother paid to have his character restored.

 

Morsov had actually come to her before a raid one evening and asked that Richard (Rictus Erectus) not be allowed into the crew anymore. “Julia’s not too pleased with me… She said if he died again I was buying him out of it because I was the one who got him interested in the first place.”

 

It was probably the first time she’d ever heard or seen him break character.

 

“That and he’s got to irritating me about it while I’m at work and the Lieutenant isn’t happy with me.”

 

And so the hunt had begun for a replacement member of their crew.

 

It was Ace that found him. Tosser, he was from Leeds and a stay-at-home-father. His son was six months old and Furiosa had seen a photo of the two of them with their eyes blacked and faces painted. His real name was Bill and he was very chatty, talked about his husband constantly in downtime. “Great guy—love him to death… I never thought I’d meet a man so supportive, but he’s there with me through everything.”

 

Furiosa had never asked, it didn’t seem her place, but when it was just the two of them, waiting for the others to log on, Bill said things that made her wonder if he had been born male or was a man of his own making. It was the way he talked about the birth mostly, or when he mentioned feeding time and being sore.

 

Bill never said anything about it overtly, so she never asked.

 

Crew solidified Furiosa found herself moving up the ranks with much less friction. There were still the odd incidents. Mutters and spiteful fights in the cages. Incidents she had to break up to keep from losing yet another War Girl or female Wastelander.

 

She met Dag doing just that. Came across her cave while scavenging and four War Boys beating her to death and cursing futilely while they tried to stomp the animals she had wandering around her little piece of the waste.

 

“Knock it off!” Furiosa ran into the fray and started throwing them left and right. “What the fuck is the matter with you! Grow the FUCK UP!”

 

They’d run off and Furiosa had waited for the girl to respawn, walked to the next screen and came back four times before she found the girl’s body renewed. “Are you OK?”

 

“Yeah,” The girl had said, “Smegs—every last one of them. Stupid smegs.”

 

“I hope they didn’t salvage anything important from you.”

 

“No. I don’t carry important things.”

 

“That’s smart.”

 

It was quiet for a moment and the girl’s avatar stumped back and forth kicking the sand. “What’s an American doing online? Isn’t it like—two in the morning there?”

 

“I’m a driver, I only work when I’m needed.”

 

“Driver? Like cars?”

 

“Trucks actually… You’ve seen the War Rig at the Citadel?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I drive something like that in real life.”

 

“Nice… I’m a dancer… We’re in London right now… Mum’s having drinks with the director so I’m killing War Boys.”

 

“Yeah?” Furiosa wasn’t sure the girl had been killing the War Boys more as being massacred by them.

 

“Yeah… They salvage everything they can get from you… So I make sure it’s special.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“There’s a pool in the mountains full of poison water… Radioactive sludge… It works wonders on pests.”

 

Furiosa snorted; “That’s genius.”

 

“Doesn’t bother me because of this!” She clicked something on her taskbar and suddenly her eyes were glowing iridescent blue and navy veins had spread up her arms, fingertips turned into claws. Her character hissed and snarled and screamed and swiped angrily in Furiosa’s direction.

 

The game called it Shine. It was essentially magical powers, caused by nuclear fallout. You didn’t get to pick your Shine, if you got it, but every so often it fit the player. If Dag maxed the ability out she could kill just about anything.

 

“Have you been able to level it up yet?”

 

“I could… I just don’t want to,” She reverted back to her original shape. “If I level up it shows, and then the War Boys would come to kill me to get Experience and I don’t want to give them the satisfaction.

 

“You could be really valuable on a crew.”

 

“Eh, I don’t play well with others.”

 

Furiosa hummed; “Well, if you change your mind I’m usually at the Citadel and my crew Runs Bartertown every morning.”

 

The girl hesitated then after a moment her voice seemed different, lighter; “I’ll remember that.”

 

0-0-0

 

The first time she met Cheedo was different, it was about three weeks later. The girl had just outrun her Survival Mode introduction and was burnt half to a crisp lying in the sand shimmering red in distress. The girl was muttering, “Come ON! Get UP! What’s the matter with this stupid game!”

 

Tosser snorted; “Newb,” and they’d stopped the trade rig long enough for Toss to get the girl on her feet again.

 

Cheedo had sought her out after that and every time the girl needed an Organic Mechanic or protection from assholes, she came to Furiosa, or if Furiosa happened to be offline she found a member of the crew, most usually Ace, one of his sons, or Morsov, and stuck close until the threat left.

 

“Shoot them!” Ace had said one evening. “If they come after you shoot them in the knees, cripple them! They respawn if you kill them, but if you cripple them, short of paying the Renew fee they’re stuck like that.”

 

As time went on there had been an impressively growing number of War Boys and Wastelanders sporting knee injuries and lost legs.

 

The Cage fights got interesting not long after that. Furiosa only joined in when it came time for fights over the War Rig. The weekly challenge at the Citadel. All Imperators were eligible to fight, but they had to have a full crew. The Immortan hosted the fights and the winner not only got to drive the rig but the crew won bonus Experience when the Run was finished.

 

From the Citadel to Gastown to the Bullet Farm. Furiosa had been on a crew that made the Run when she’d still been a War Girl. It made the whole game worth it and she could see why people fought so intensely over the right to make the Run. Bartering runs were intense, but this was wild. Buzzards and Rock Riders and Raiders. And if your character died on the Run you respawned back at the Citadel, not back on the rig like with Barter runs.

 

You had to get to Gastown without losing any of your haul. Had to make a profitable trade for Guzz then make it through hostile territory to the Bullet Farm, trade for ammunition, and make it back to the Citadel without any loss of product.

 

In the Citadel hall of records there had only ever been ten perfect runs with no crew lost and no product lost… All of them had been run by Joe before he became Immortan and took over the Citadel.

 

Furiosa had seen other crews attacking War Rigs before trying to initiate hostile takeovers. It had happened more than once, but almost always ended in the rig being wrecked and more than one player going Historic.

 

Furiosa knew that the War Rig could be taken on a Run more than once a week, it was just another mission, but the running of the Citadel fell on the Immortan. Joe only let the run be made once a week and there had been rumors that somehow—someway, the cage matches were rigged.

 

Furiosa didn’t know if it was true, or just spiteful rumors from other losers, but she wouldn’t put it past Joe.

 

There had only ever been Three Immorta, but nothing in any of the game’s handbooks or story boards said that there couldn’t be more than three. Yet, everyone she’d ever seen ready to level up to Immortan died Historic. She didn’t know why, or how, but short of writing an email to the game developers and asking what was going on, there wasn’t much she could do.

 

Maybe it was just a glitch.

 

A notice popped up on her screen;

 

**[The_Dag is Whispering in your ear.]**

**Accept. Ignore.**

 

She clicked and the sound of Bartertown faded to a low rumble. Dag's character's face appearing in a little box in the upper right corner of the screen.

 

“Dag? What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing’s wrong… I'm just gad you're still here. I’ve just captured an injured Scav and need to borrow your Organic.”

 

“You captured someone?” Furiosa’s nose wrinkled. “Was he bothering you?”

 

“No. He’s fine—Just needs the Organic.”

 

“Is he OK?”

 

“No, he got shot in the knee, it's infected and gross looking.”

 

Furiosa chuckled, sent out a Whisper to Tosser, “No, I meant the player. Does he seem OK? Or do you want me to stick around to make sure he doesn't bother you.”

 

Dag was quiet for a moment. “You can stay if you want… He doesn’t talk much.”

 

Tosser joined the Whisper; “Yeah, Boss?”

 

“Dag’s got an injured Scav and needs some help.”

 

“Right’o!”

 

0-0-0

 

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0-0-0


	6. No Man's Land

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will not be posting chapters on Wednesdays and Sundays. Wednesday's because I watch Supernatural and can't really focus on much else afterward, and Sundays because I spend all Sunday doing homework. So, I will see you guys Thursday!

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

**THE PIT**

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

Pink Lemon was waiting at the cage when Furiosa logged on. The hall was already crowded and two Imperators were fighting in the ring.

 

“What’d I miss?” Furiosa found her clinging to the rusted chain link overlooking the pit.

 

“Not much,” She said. “The fighting started about ten minutes ago. Still working through the first bracket.”

 

“Know whose next?”

 

“Yeah, Scrotus versus Lockhart… It’s going to be brutal!”

 

“Did that War Boy ever get back to you? I can’t put myself on the bracket unless I have a ten-member crew logged on and ready.”

 

“Yeah, he and his lancer are topped off and ready to go!”

 

Furiosa felt her nose wrinkle triumphantly. Another lancer was just what they’d needed. “Okay, good. Tosser’s already on, he’s waiting down in the hall in case I get fucked up.”

 

“You’ll be fine, Boss!” Lemon said, her War Girl pounded her fists on the chain link in excitement, chanted “VEE-EIGHT VEE-EIGHT!” along with the others as the ring cleared.

 

Immortan Joe was up in his viewing box with the other Immorta, he stood and announced the next fight, voice echoing and artificial.

 

Furiosa didn’t know why he always spoke like a TV evangelist, but it did add to the ambiance. Across the room the Doof was playing a heavy death metal riff as the fighting began.

 

Imperator fights were always brutal. Players were maxed out in almost all of their abilities, but the rules stated, no Shine, no weapons. The only reason Furiosa hadn’t been forced to remove her character’s prosthetic was because she couldn’t, her character design was older than most others, created back before prosthesis could be unequipped. She’d always hoped that updates would make it possible because not being able to remove it was unrealistic, but she wasn’t holding her breath.

 

Ace appeared behind her just as Scrotus pinned Lockhart to the ground and started pounding his face into the sandstone.

 

“How’s the headcount?” He said, then made an approving sound in his throat at the carnage in the pit; “Ooo, look at that!”

 

“We’ve got a full ten, and a backup!”

 

“Backup?”

 

“Toast.”

 

Ace grunted and turned to watch the fight.

 

Scrotus won, he usually did.

 

The Prime was next. Big guy, Furiosa had lost to him before, it was never pretty what he did to his opponents. But that just made it more fun to watch.

 

A red hoop appeared above Furiosa’s head and she felt tension bubble in her gut.

 

“Okay, I’m next after the Prime. Who am I up against?”

 

Ace spotted him; “Looks like Dunham! His first go at the War Rig… I’ve seen him in the cages in Gastown before. He’s got Raging Feral as his first offensive, likes to snap necks so don’t let him get behind you— and High Octane blood so he’s got a higher HP. Full Life… You can take him.”

 

Furiosa hadn’t fought against Dunham before. He was a relatively new Imperator, she didn’t know much about. The only thing she did know was that he had sent Clovis Bastardi down Historic two months before on the Gastown Circuit. As far as she knew, Bastardi’s player hadn’t returned.

 

It had been a shock truthfully. Bastardi had been one of the few younger Imperators to allow War Girls on his crew without demanding they trade paint. She’d ridden on his crew on the Fury Road her first year on Wasteland. She was interested to see what kind of person Dunham’s player was and if she’d have to warn War Girls away from him.

 

The Prime was up against the Kraken, a Gastown Imperator who was easily twice the size of him and covered in napalm scars.

 

Kraken relied mainly on his brute strength in his attacks, but the Prime was wiry, even for his size and it was a good match. Would have fallen in the Prime’s favor if Kraken hadn’t gone Kamikrazy, grabbed him and broken him in half over his barrel sized knee. Blood and guts and shards of bone flew everywhere and the Prime’s player shouted; “SHINE! YOU CAN’T USE SHINE IN AN IMPERATOR’S MATCH!”

 

Furiosa hadn’t seen any evidence of Shine, but it wasn’t her call.

 

“What? THIS IS HORSE SHIT!” The guy shouted; “I DON’T HAVE ANY FUCKING SHINE! YOU SON-OF-A-BITCH! IT’S ALL FUCKING HORSE SHIT!” He flashed as he logged off, too angry to stick around for Joe’s verdict.

 

Furiosa made her way down into the ring, emptied her side pouch so nothing could be salvaged if she died and made sure to chug two bottles of Citadel water and devour an apple Dag had given her the day before in trade for some pear seeds. It wouldn’t prevent damage, but it would make her health go up faster, maybe buy her a few moments.

 

Pit Fights were an exception to the usual rules of the Reality Algorithm. You could fight and be hurt terribly, but when you left the pits the damage was undone, and if you saw an Organic your health would recover almost instantly. She didn’t know if it was a glitch in the game or if it had been done intentionally to make players want to visit the pits more often. Nobody wanted to have their characters mangled, but it happened, pit fights were a nice respite.

 

Joe introduced them, gave a speech about each of their triumphs. Furiosa wondered, absently, if Joe’s player wasn’t an English professor because he sure did like to hear himself talk.

 

Joe went on briefly about the fact Furiosa was a prized Imperator, having fought on the Fury Road in the past and led raiding parties out into the wastes. Returning triumphant from hostile territories in the west with treasures.

 

Dunham Blaze was a fine rising Imperator, and had sent Bastardi to Valhalla Shiny and Chrome and proven himself time and time again on the Gastown Circuit.

 

And then a little black alert appeared on Furiosa’s screen.

**[Dunham_Blaze is Whispering in your ear.]**

**Accept. Ignore.**

 

She clicked ‘Accept’ warily. She wasn’t above trash talk, found in hilarious to hear some attempts to insult her—found it even funnier when all she did was laugh and they got angry.

 

Dunham’s picture appeared in the upper right corner and—

 

“You’ve done well for yourself.”

 

She recognized the voice instantly, coughed out a laugh; “Ben!”

 

“Don’t think I’m gonna go easy on you just because you’re a girl!”

 

“I thought you had a Bullet Farmer!”

 

“Eh, went out Kamikrazy on a raid about four months back… Decided to see what being a War Boy was about,” He dove at her with a snarl, all grabbing hands and gnashed teeth.

 

She brought both hands down on the back of his neck, sent him staggering, crouched and circled to her left. “It’s not bad. Place can be full of assholes though.”

 

“Oh?” He went for her legs.

 

She stomped on his face, broke his nose in a splatter of blood he took a swing and caught her midriff, broke three ribs. “Yeah, there’s a group of ‘Boys that’ve been harassing some Wastelanders I barter with.”

 

“Ah,” Ben grabbed her foot and swung her bodily into the wall. “Gamer girls?”

 

“How did you know?” Her head is bleeding. “You’ve got kind of a reputation.”

 

“All juicy I hope,” She lunges to her feet and comes in close with an Enraged snarl, pounds his broken nose with her metal fist, watches his health drop.

 

“Damnit—“ He clicks furiously, trying to throw her off; “It happens everywhere. Not much you can do about it in the long run—“

 

“Well, it’s not right,” She grabs his left eye and yanks it out. “I usually tell them to shoot for the kneecaps.”

 

Ben mutters a curse, “You plucked my eye! My EYE! That’s shitty!” He throws her again and lunges at her Raging. She kicks out with both feet, catches him in the throat and his health plummets. “Fuck— _Furi!”_ He swipes at her but his HP is falling fast, lands a few punches but it’s clear she’s crushed his trachea. “Goddamn you,” He says without malice. “Well, good luck in the next bracket.”

 

His character goes down hard on his face and lies there twitching for a few seconds then stills, flashes black around the edges and the match is over almost as soon as it had begun.

 

NPC’s drag his corpse off to the shouts of “VEE-EIGHT!” and “WITNESSED!”

 

Out in the hallway he respawns and follows her up to where Ace and Lemon are waiting. Morsov has arrived while she was fighting, and behind him Tank is rummaging in his catchall.

 

“That was so shine!” Morsov said excitedly. “Did you see all that blood shoot out of his mouth when you kicked him? I thought he had you for sure, but then you blasted him!”

 

“He should really level up his other offensive moves instead of relying on Raging Feral.”

 

“Yeah, yeah—“ Ben muttered and she heard him pop open a can of beer.

 

Furiosa rolled her eyes; “This is Ben—As in Ben my Boss.”

 

“Wicked!” Lemon said excitedly; “So you’ve met the Boss in real life?”

 

“Yeah, she practically lives behind the brewery now. I should really consider either charging you rent, or paying you as a security guard.”

 

“I’ll take it,” She said only in half jest; “But I don’t think you can afford me.”

 

Ace, however, gets right to business; “So, you sent Bastardi to Valhalla?”

 

“Yeah… Didn’t really mean to, I only did the Gastown Races before, then a crewmate took me to the ‘Circuit— I thought it was like the Pit Fights or Thunderdome, but apparently the ‘Circuit isn’t a game sanctioned fighting zone. I offered to pay his Renew fee but he just didn’t reply. It was weird.”

 

“Weird?”

 

“Yeah, like… Like he stopped talking halfway through the fight. I don’t know, maybe he got tired of the bullshit.”

 

“What bullshit?”

 

“Huh? Oh. It was all over the forums… someone’s been sniping his crew on Runs. SUPER long Range, so far nobody’s been able to find them. It’s a shitty thing to do, but then someone said they hacked the accounts of some of his female crew and had nudes… The mods looked into it but it wasn’t ever confirmed.”

 

Furiosa didn’t go near the forums. Not since she’d been bombarded with creative fan-arts and gifs of War Boys and War Girls trading paint. There was a place for pornography, she decided, and watching videogame characters with their testicles cut off be humped by other video game characters wasn’t her idea of a grand ol’ time.

 

Ace and Ben continued talking but Furiosa had focused on the fighting again, watched the bracket whittle down until it was her turn again.

 

It took the better part of two hours to par the brackets down. She fought with a Gastown Imperator, and a Bulletfarmer, two Citadel Imperators— Logos, and BitchFace. Would have lost to BitchFace because of a damned lucky Kamikrazy hit to her sternum that put a rib through her left lung, but his character started glitching and running into the wall thrashing and foaming at the mouth.

 

He cackled; “Crack-Attack! _CRACK-ATTACK!”_ and half the players crowded into the arena burst out laughing.

 

Joe called out in an amused growl, “MEDIOCRE!” And Kalashnikov laughed so hard Furiosa was sure the man was going to vomit.

 

“Goddamn glitches!” BitchFace snarled; “Well, I forfeit I guess… It won’t fix itself until I reset. Fucking code man!”

 

“No hard feelings,” Furiosa said earnestly; “Come find me later. I’m heading up an expedition into the East and could use another rig.”

 

_“Sweet,”_ BitchFace muttered, appeased, “In that case, kick ass Imperator! You have my blessing!” And his character flashed as he logged out, ending the match.

 

Furiosa didn’t realize she was in the semi-finals until a bright blue flaming hoop appeared above her head as she was exiting the pit. She’d made it to the semi-finals before, but had never emerged triumphant.

 

Scrotus was up in the next fight, against a Gastown Imperator named LuckyGuzz-O’Leen with one eye and a nasty set of filed shark teeth.

 

Furiosa’s opponent was across the ring—She nearly shat herself—“Is that Rictus!”

 

Morsov let out a loud groan; “Oh fuck a DUCK!” He made a low miserable sound in his throat; “Julia is going to hate me for this… Kill him, Boss. Kill the whiny little fuck! How he made Imperator I will never know!”

 

Scrotus and Lucky were wailing on one another, each neck deep in Raging Feral. Lucky was making all manner of inhuman noises over his mic. Screeches and loud barking noises. Doof was in the middle of a heavy solo and the next second Lucky lashed out with a clawed hand and slashed at Scrotus.

 

“SHINE!” The People Eater bellowed; “NO SHINE IN THE IMPERATOR’S MATCH!”

 

Joe was on his feet; “YOU HAVE BROKEN THE RULES OF THE IMPERATOR’S MATCH! BLATANT AND COLD, YOU ARE WITHOUT HONOR!”

 

Lucky shouted in a thick Scottish accent; “There’s no rule in the guide about not using Shine in the pits, you wet fucksock!” He lunged up in an impossible jump right at Joe, claws extended and glowing red—

 

And Joe pulled out a revolver, a big magnum, plated in gold and put a hole in Lucky’s head. He tumbled back into the ring flashing black.

 

Nobody spoke.

 

Joe made a snarling animalistic sound in his throat; “I AM THE IMMORTAN! MY WORD IS LAW!”

 

All around the room War Boys were chanting “VEE-EIGHT! VEE-EIGHT!”

 

The People Eater spoke again, voice wet sounding in his throat; “The rules of the Imperator’s Match dictate; In the event of a disqualification before death, accounting for the possibility of a disqualification in a Final Round, the least experienced opponent in the next—if available— or last bracket, will take the place of the disqualified Imperator!”

 

“Holy shit!” Lemon mumbled.

 

Furiosa’s stomach felt light and the flaming hoop above her head turned yellow.

 

Finals.

 

Rictus entered the ring cheering and snarling in excitement.

 

Furiosa was glued to the fence.

 

Joe made an introduction for Rictus but didn’t hear it. Her ears were ringing. She’d been advanced to the finals by a rule that had killed her on more than one occasion. Morsov was right by her side, character forgotten, muttering. “Oh, come on, Richie—Lose it—just lose it. Make a joke of yourself so uncle Travis doesn’t have to hear yer’ mum sniping at him about what a mouth you’ve got because of your game friends anymore.”

 

It was brutal to watch.

 

Scrotus was stronger, threw Rictus around, beat on him and ripped off his ears— But Scrotus wasn’t as fast. Richard had strategy apparently. Had maxed out Rictus’ Raging Feral, Muscle Mass, Crushing Power and Tension. Four abilities players usually didn’t bother top leveling because they were prone to making your character exceedingly muscular and difficult to maneuver. They could throw off your aim and your stealth and other traits integral to surviving Wasteland.

 

But they made a character a walking tank.

 

Scrotus had more abilities maxed out, but he hadn’t bothered to level up his muscle tone, or his bone density…

 

Rictus caught him around the chest—And broke every bone between his clavicle and his pelvis in a single roaring squeeze. Blood burst like a geyser from Scrotus’ mouth and the force of the pressure squeezed a horrible mess of blood and brown lumps from his intestines as they ruptured out down the legs of his pants.

 

“Oh, HELL NO!” Lemon shrieked in distress. “Did—He POPPED the _Scrotes!”_

 

Across the arena someone burst out laughing, but the sound was almost drowned out amid the War Boys and War Girls and Imperators cheering in sick delight at the blood.  

 

Scrotus didn’t flash black for a long few moments. Just laid there in the ring twitching and bleeding from every orifice. His player was shrieking disgusted by the animations on the screen and disbelieving that he had been crushed by what was obviously a child. Someone in the background of his mic was screaming in excited distress, high and shrill like only a young man’s voice can manage;

 

“OH MY GOD! OH MY GOD!”

 

And Furiosa felt simultaneously disgusted, terrified, and resolute.

 

She was the only thing standing between this spoiled little boy and one of the highest honors of the game. She knew Richard didn’t respect what the War Rig represented—knew because he couldn’t care less about the rules of the trading rigs. She knew as well as her crew did—as well as Scrotus’ crew did, that Rictus Erectus would wind up running the War Rig into Gastown and start shooting. He got too excited by watching things die in the game. Got too excited about exerting power over other players.

 

And suddenly Rictus wasn’t some kid anymore, he was everything she’d grown to despise about Wasteland, everything that made it nearly impossible for female gamers, and even some male gamers, to play because they enjoy the game. Rictus represented everything that had tried to break her down since the day her mother’s doctor had said—oh so calmly; ‘So, you’ve got advanced stage cervical cancer and it’s metastasized to your lymph nodes. There’s not much you can do.’

 

Furiosa bared her teeth at her computer screen. Felt herself growling like a wild thing.

 

“Boss,” Ace Whispered. “Boss, you’re up! Slay this fucking kid!”

 

She couldn’t hear her own voice as she entered the pit, couldn’t pick out Rictus’ voice as the kid cheered and hammed it up for the crowd.

 

Richard was a whiny brat, yes, but he was damned good at video games. Rictus was all brute strength, Chrome and Rage… And she knew his weaknesses, had seen them on Barter runs and raids when he’d been on her crew.

 

“Look who it is!” Richard said in a nasal voice; “It’s the big bad _bitch!”_

 

They circled one another slowly, hunched forward and defensive.

 

“I’m gonna shred you!” Richard spat; “I’m gonna tear your arms off and beat you with them!”

 

He wasn’t fast, his size made haste an impossibility. But he packed a hell of a punch. Broke Furiosa’s jaw on the first swing and sent her flying into the wall. She tapped U frantically and managed to dodge him, aimed a kick at his character’s crotch and took the scant few seconds his agility was compromised to launch herself onto his back and start pulling at the hoses of his oxygen tank. Starting a slow bleed of his HP. -1…-1…-1…

 

Richard snarled and let out a roar, thrashed her off and tried to stomp on her head with a crackling, prepubescent shriek; “SMAAAAAASH!”

 

His throat was vulnerable, his face and eyes were vulnerable. She punched and gouged and raged against him. Enjoyed the flash of his HP ticking down when she crushed his cheek under the relentless pummeling of her iron fist and smeared his right eye to jelly.

 

He thrashed her off again and Raged at her with a snarl, but his vision was compromised, his aim was off. Thank Reality!

 

Furiosa landed one-two punches to his unprotected middle, sneered when a rib finally broke. Grinned when Richard’s voice lowered to an angry mutter.

 

“Stupid controller, come ON! SMASHSMASHSMASH!”

 

Rictus’ fist caught her shoulder, snapping her humerus and shattering her clavicle. -4…-4…-4… Furiosa lashed out—metal fingers clamping around his neck and squeezing. Headbutted him two—three times until his remaining eye popped out and blood was coursing over both of them. Her nose was crushed, all her teeth broken out—

 

-6…-7…-5…

 

“Hey—HEY! That’s not fair! WHY AREN’T YOU DEAD!” Richard sounded confused. Threw a couple blind punches at her middle but she danced back while he swung, circled and launched herself onto his back, wrapped her prosthetic arm around his neck and with an audible snarl planted her feet on the wall of the pit and kicked back, swinging over his head.

 

Everything was quiet—it was as if even the Doof Warrior had stopped playing.

 

Rictus’ neck made a wet popping crunch sound and he flashed black before he even hit the ground.

 

Furiosa tumbled across the pit and landed on her back. It took almost a full three seconds for her to realize what she’d just done and tap the U key to get on her feet.

 

From up in the arena Ben shouted; “YEEEAAAH!” And a green hoop appeared above Furiosa’s head the Immortan’s flaming skull burning inside it.

 

It was just a game, she knew. Just a game, but this—She clapped a hand over her mouth and took a deep shuddering breath.

 

A War Girl had never won the War Rig before. A female gamer had never driven the War Rig before.

 

She could hear Ace in the background behind all the game noise and voices.

 

“Yes! YESYESYES! FUCKIN’YES, MATE! FUCKIN’YES!”

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0


	7. For the Need of Water

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

Max went with them to Bartertown, to Scraptown, and many other (Insert Word of Your Choice)towns. Once or twice a player, usually War Boys, would approach. Once or twice someone would run up and say;

 

“I told you never to come back here!”

 

And Max, oh so politely, would point a gun at them. He’d only had to shoot three of them before they got the message and started leaving the ‘Mad Scav’ and his group of ‘Bitches’ alone. He didn’t doubt that once the players currently online went to bed, or to work, or whatever they did when they weren’t online, that the new wave of players would have to go through the same thing. He hoped, at least, that they learned quickly enough that he only had to tell them once.

 

Capable and Dag talked a lot.

 

Capable’s name was Catherine. She was from New Zealand, the big island, but she’d moved to South Africa to live with her uncle.

 

“It’s Okay,” She said, “Johannesburg isn’t bad or anything, but I just—I don’t know anybody and there’s lots of guns.”

 

Max snorted into his coffee, typed; ‘There are lots of guns here.’

 

“I haven’t seen any,” Dag said curiously. “Cops have to deal with it a lot?”

 

‘There’s gun violence everywhere. I just see more of it because it’s my job.’

 

“Do you Skype?” Dag said to Capable, “Maybe we could talk sometime.”

 

“I dunno if my uncle would let me,” Capable said mournfully, “He’s a little restrictive. This game is about all the freedom I have. But I’ll ask—worst thing could happen is he says no.”

 

“My mum’s restrictive too. I’m not allowed around people unless it’s for practice or an audition. I got in some trouble in Sydney.”

 

“What kind?”

 

“Broke a man’s wrist and ruptured one of his testicles.”

 

Max flinched, teeth bared at the screen and his knees pressed together; ‘Why would you do that!’

 

“What happened?” Capable said, amazed.

 

“He was the director of a ballet studio Mum was trying to get me membership in. He was like thirty—and he got handsy—“

 

“And you broke his wrist!”

 

‘Good girl!’

 

“’s not hard,” Dag said, “Just grab the thumb and pull up, then CHOP! With the other fist across the arm.’

 

‘If it happens again, punch him in the neck!’

 

“You do know you’re telling us how to hurt men.”

 

‘If they do that they deserve it. Also, go for the eyes! Or slap a hand over the ear as hard as you can.’

 

“See, I knew there was a reason I kept you around!” Dag said with an audible smile. “Still don’t believe you’re not a woman, but, until you’ve got a headset we’ll never know for certain.”

 

‘I assure you, I’m not a woman.’

 

“Schrodinger’s Dick, mate!”

 

Max snorted and shook his head. ‘Let’s be age appropriate, thank you.’

 

Capable laughed quietly, “So, Dag, you’re a ballerina?”

 

“Yeah. Mum’s trying to get me into this troupe in London right now… She doesn’t think I notice—but she’s fucking the director. It’s kind of gross. He’s old and yells. She makes me stay in the room while she’s ‘dining’—“ She says the word in a nasal falsetto, “—but I know what’s going on. I’m not stupid.”

 

Capable hums knowingly; “Have you got kids, Scav?”

 

He says nothing.

 

“At least tell me you don’t treat them like they’re stupid—It’s annoying. We’re smarter than you think.”

 

He doesn’t say anything for a long time.

 

They stop to refuel and Dag goes about kicking the sand near them, makes a few pleased humming noises. “I haven’t been out this far before. The Debris is different here.”

 

“Debris?” Capable walks over, her animated head bowed.

 

“Yeah—You kick at the sand like this—and you can find things. I’ve got an old button, some Desert Glass—It’s like sea glass—and a piece of weathered plastic… You can’t find Desert Glass or plastic anywhere near my cave, so there’s got to be a buried city or a wreck or something near by.”

 

“We should look for it!” Capable started kicking too; “Do you know how valuable a buried city could be? There could be loads of things down there.”

 

Max was still quiet, his character standing listlessly by his car, unmoved since he’d put the last can of guzz in.

 

“Do you think he’s AFK?”

 

“I didn’t see him type anything—“

 

“He really should get a headset.”

 

“Do you think he’s OK?”

 

Capable wandered over and punched his shoulder.

 

His character swayed with it, but didn’t otherwise react.

 

“Maybe he’s glitching.”

 

“Scav, if you’re glitching you’ll have to log out and come back. You’ll reappear right here.”

 

After a moment words appeared above his head and in the text pane to the left;

 

‘No glitch. Just thinking.’

 

“Oh, okay, you were just really still.”

 

‘There’s an airport near here. Or there is in the real world. It’s just bush planes, but it might be where the glass came from.’

 

“How do you know that!” Capable said.

 

“Google, probably,” Dag said and took a drink of something.

 

“Where? How far?”

 

Max went still again, ‘Have a compass?’

 

“There’s one on the dash of your car,” Dag said. “They’re standard in case there’s a sandstorm.”

 

Max limped to the driver’s door and slid in, clicked the compass once the screen had changed to the interior of the car. ‘It’s about a kilometer north if the map is proportional,’ He took a screenshot of the google map and pasted it into paint, spent a few moments referencing the Wasteland map and making notations. He marked where Dag’s cave was, where Bartertown was, where the other (word)towns they’d visited were. Everything looked perfectly proportional.

 

“I wonder if they put houses in it,” He peered at the map, gauged the distance between Dag’s cave and the highway. After a moment he narrowed his eyes; ‘Do you know how they got the map so realistic?’

 

“Satellites, and stuff I think,” Dag said, still kicking the sand.

 

“Yeah,” Capable was on the other side of their little camp checking the sand over there. “Ooh! I found a skull!”

 

“Human or animal?”

 

“Animal! ‘s a cow I think!” She kicked at the sand more vigorously; “OH! There’s more bones!”

 

“If you found a whole skeleton they’re worth a lot!” Dag moved a few steps and kept kicking.

 

Curiously Max tapped his keys and stumped the toe of his injured leg against the sand. There was nothing. A few shambling steps to the side and—

 

[You found a piece of Desert Glass.]

It is green.

 

The screen showed it, shaped kind of like a boot and gray-yellowish. He thought it looked like earwax.

 

A few steps more and.

 

[You found a rubber washer.]

It’s broken.

 

[You found a piece of aluminum.]

It’s flat and sharp.

 

[You found a bullet casing.]

It’s bent.

 

[You found a Cache!]

It looks deep.

Dig it up? Bury it.

 

Max hesitated; ‘I found a cache. What do I do?’

 

“DIG!” Dag turned and ran over. “If you ever find something buried, dig it up!”

 

Capable came over as well and started scooping sand away with her hands.

 

“Hold on, I’ve got a spade!” Dag rummaged in her bag and came out with an arm length, military issue hand spade. “Here, I’ve got more.”

 

“How many shovels do you have?” Capable said in awe.

 

“Six.”

 

‘How did you get six spades?’

 

“I stole them.”

 

“Why!”

 

“You need a spade and you’re asking me why I have them?”

 

Max didn’t want to go to his knees, worried it may jag his health down again so he wandered off and kept looking. Found four or five more pieces of desert glass in red, clear, and blue, according to the game. Clear seemed to be the most plentiful.

 

“It’s a wreck!” Dag shrieked excitedly. “It’s a wrecked PLANE!”

 

When Max turned he saw they had the tip of a wing exposed and were continuing to dig.

 

“SCAV, GET OVER HERE AND HELP!”

 

It took the better part of three game days to dig it out, the debris around it plentiful and according to Dag; “Really high quality scrap!”

 

There was only part of the plane, the rest burned out, but the wings, engine, and part of the tail section were intact. Including some of the cargo.

 

“It’s the post!” Dag had torn open a box. “Letters and packages and news papers.”

 

Max took one of the news papers and snorted in amusement. It was a real news paper. Decades old, but still real. Some of the headlines and articles had been changed to support the game’s story. The headline read ‘Nuclear War!’ and showed a black and white image of a mushroom cloud. Below it was an article about the threat of bombings from various countries, but there were whole pages of text that could have been, and likely was, in the actual print.

 

“We can sell this,” Dag said earnestly. “Or we can take it to a seamstress and make paper with it—you can sell fresh paper for about a pint for five sheets, and we’ve got so much paper here to use!”

 

“What’s in the packages?”

 

“Dunno, We’ll look later. We need to pack this up and go before a raiding party comes through.”

 

Max put the news paper away and helped gather and store the salvage. The wings got affixed to the top of his car, the engine was rolled onto the gunner’s perch of Dag’s. Capable took most of the news papers and it was as they were packing away the sacks of debris that Max found it.

 

[You found a Tranquility shard.]

It’s silver on one side, black on the other.

 

Max stared at it as it rotated slowly on the screen. It looked like a petrified piece of tart, blackened on one side, as the text said, and thick, kind of yellowy in the middle. Something seemed oddly familiar about it but he couldn’t place it, tucked the piece away and went back to loading their salvage.

 

0-0-0

 

Capable had to log off first, said she had school in the morning and her uncle was complaining.

 

Not long after that Dag said in a low voice that her mother was back and she had to go.

 

“You’ll be back tomorrow, right Scav?”

 

He hesitated, but typed; ‘Yes.’

 

“Okay, see you!”

 

Dag blinked and disappeared along with her car and everything she’d salvaged.

 

Max marked the place on his map. It couldn’t be more than a four-game-day drive. He made sure everything he had was saved, so if he was killed nothing could be taken as salvage and lost. Put the plane wings and all the packages away in his inventory, climbed into his car and turned south-east.

 

Once he found the highway it wasn’t too difficult to get his bearings.

 

Things were different, of course. This was supposed to be years into the future still, after a nuclear fallout. The rivers were all dried up, the landscape naught but red sand and dirt. The Geiger counter on his dashboard started steadily ticking upward the closer he got, ‘Low Risk’ according to the notice on the screen.

 

But the closer he got the higher the numbers got.

 

He didn’t doubt that he could drive right into the city and see where he worked, where his flat was. But it would likely kill him. Irradiate his organs and cook him from the inside out.

 

He turned back when the counter said he was getting close to high-risk territory and muttered to himself that it was a game, what did he care if his character died of radiation poisoning? He’d just respawn.

 

But at the same time he knew, in some black portion of his mind, that if he saw his city reduced to radioactive rubble, he’d have nightmares about it just like he had after he’d watched the Terminator movies years ago. Dreams—horrific dreams—of a bomb taking out his home. The bright FLASH! And everything boiling.

 

His phone started ringing as he was skirting back the way he’d come and he left the screen to go collect it.

 

“’lo?”

 

“Max! ‘s Jim! You daggy bastard! Come have drinks with Tanner and me!”

 

“Uhm—“

 

“C’mon! You don’t do anything anymore!”

 

“I—“

 

“I’ll swing ‘round and pick you up!”

 

“No—“

 

“No ‘NO’. Yes ‘YES’!”

 

“I’ve got a shift at nine.”

 

“Make Morsov take it! He wants the day off tomorrow anyway.”

 

“I don’t know—“

 

“C’mon! Tanner’s friend Mindy wants to meet you!”

 

“I’m not—“

 

A car’s horn blared from outside.

 

“C’mon, Ducky, let’s go!”

 

Another honk.

 

“You really need to get out and Mindy’s all warm in her nethers! I showed her that picture of you from Christmas! She’s REALLY interested—“

 

“That was six years ago!”

 

“Max, don’t make me come in and drag you out by your pearls.”

 

“No.”

 

Jim sighed audibly; “What if it was just you and me?”

 

“Jim—“

 

“Max. Please,” His tone dropped. “Just come out and have drinks with me.”

 

He sighed, scratched the back of his head vigorously. He knew if he denied one more time Jim would give up, call him a hermit and leave, but he really hadn’t been out in a long time. Too long in some people’s opinions. He didn’t care much himself, but others could make life miserable. “Give me a few minutes,” He ended the call without waiting for a reply.

 

He logged off the game and shuffled into his room, muttering as he skinned out of his shirt. He stepped into the toilet just to peer into the mirror, decided there was no need to shave if it was just going to be the two of them and went for his shoes.

 

“I’ve got to be back by eight.”

 

“No worries,” Jim slapped a hand on his back.

 

“Sober!”

 

“You’re no fun.”

 

0-0-0

 

Jim took him to Hooters.

 

Of course.

 

Max had a suspicion he hadn’t even asked Tanner along in the first place.

 

Jim talked. He talked about his new car, how many vacation days he had saved up—said he was going to take a plane out in December, go spend Christmas in the Bahamas. “No Rain! No work! Just me, a white sandy beach, and any willing lady ‘at happens my way,” He bumped the point of his elbow into Max’s ribs. Got a snort out of him.

 

“You should come with! Maybe we’ll get lucky!”

 

Max felt his shoulders bunch up around his ears, shook his head so he could swallow. “’don’t like planes.”

 

“Nobody LIKES them! Nobody sane anyway… But they get you where you’re going! ‘s like your fist—Not good, not bad—just gets you where you’re going.”

 

Max rolled his eyes. “What’d you bring me here for?”

 

Jim shrugged, gave his head an innocent shake; “Can’t I just want to have a beer with my best friend?”

 

“Not when you could have been with Tanner.”

 

“Eh, she’s turned funny…” He flapped a hand, finished his drink; “Her loss.”

 

Max snorted and checked his watch, tapped it in obvious sight of Jim.

 

“Alright, alright—Why you’d want to work the night shift I’ll never know.”

 

Jim drove him back, then flopped unceremoniously across Max’s couch. “You do have coffee?”

 

Max grunted in the affirmative and went to change into his uniform.

 

“Good man!”

 

When Max came out again Jim cackled at him, “You’re on patrol? They put you on patrol!”

 

“Laugh all you like. You’ll have a rotation too.”

 

Jim rolled his blonde head, amusement thick in the shine of his eyes and the pull of his mouth. “Shit you look like a proper cop now. It’s not funny anymore,” He laughed louder.

 

Max showed him a finger and went out the door.

 

0-0-0

 

It was a long shift. Not in hours, but in activity. There’d been a drug deal gone wrong and there were two bodies in the street draped in sheets. It took them three hours to get photos and details of the crime scene.

 

Max kept the crowd back as best he could, kept an eye out for anybody suspicious. Nobody seemed to be lurking, but the same black four-door sedan drove by a few times. The windows were too heavily tinted for him to get a glimpse of anybody, and the crowd was too thick for him to catch a glimpse of the license, but the presence of the car set off little warning bells. The other officers and detectives wouldn’t let him close to the scene, so he knew there’d been a child involved. Morsov and Hughes were good about that. It was annoying, because it felt like Max wasn’t doing his job, but part of him—a part he didn’t like to acknowledge— was relieved he wasn’t made to see the carnage of these particular instances.

 

The Chief was good at not sending him out on calls involving kids unless there was no other choice.

 

It grated on his nerves sometimes, but others—like now—he was happy to keep his back to the commotion.

 

Deaths and gun violence were hell on paperwork. Sad to say, he really hated the paperwork that was mostly why he preferred patrols than desk duty, but times like this it didn't make much of a difference.

 

Max patrolled the area twice more before his shift was over, once the bodies had been taken away and everything done that could be to preserve the crime scene given it’s placement, but he didn’t see the dark sedan again. Not directly. Maybe those headlights—or those taillights—or that reflection of a streetlamp off a paintjob two streets up. There was no way to be sure, so he only said he'd seen the car a few times, and they should possibly keep a weather eye out for it.

 

He was back at the station just minutes before his shift ended—thank you traffic detours—had enough time to get a cup of coffee and update his shift replacement. Sign off on his paperwork—more paperwork—yet more. Debrief on what had happened at the scene— apparently it was a drive-by kind of shooting. It was likely the people killed weren't even the intended targets. He was almost an hour over by the time he slumped out to his car, yawned greatly and scratched his jaws.

 

Slit was coming out of his flat when Max pulled into his parking spot. The kid drove a motorbike, some angular black thing meant more for road speed than any kind of off blacktop riding. He had a backpack on and a leather jacket with unnecessary stitch work and decorative folding and a big wasteland sticker on the back of his helmet.

 

“Look at _that!”_ Slit said with a snort, propped his helmet up on his seat; “Good morning, _Officer!”_ He lowered his voice and pulled his chin toward his chest. “How are you this _fine_ day!”

 

“Get fucked.”

 

Slit cackled and turned back toward his bike—then violently back toward Max; “OH! HEY!” He darted up to the front fence and leaned over it waving a tenner in Max’s direction; “For the beers!”

 

Max hesitated, blinked in surprise. He hadn’t thought the kid would remember. “Keep it for the weekend.”

 

Slit’s grin was almost disturbing. He balled the bill up in his fist and pointed at Max’s nose; “I’ll hold you to that! There’s a big raid going on this weekend and we could use a few more Scavs for cover!”

 

Max turned, nose wrinkled in confusion; “What?”

 

“RAID! In the game! One of the Imperators is forming a multi-rig crew to go into the east! There’s strange things going on—We think it’s an Event! Like for the upgrade. Make everyone excited about it.”

 

Max was still looking at him as if he’d sprouted a second head. “I—“

 

“C’mon!” Slit groaned; “Everyone’s coming over—they’ll be beers and food—I’m going to get my dad’s barbi! An’ Cam’s gonna be on Skype!”

 

“Who?”

 

“Cam!” Slit is grinning, tip of his tongue poking between his teeth; “Well, Nux! He goes by Nux in the game… He’s my new driver, since Boyd had to quit. He’s online ALL THE TIME,” His eyes widened and he slashed a hand through the air; “He’s from Perth. Does wicked cosplay—Mad bastard shaved his head!” Slit raked a hand over his hair; “How would I look with a shaved head?”

 

“Don’t you have to go to work?”

 

“Fuck—Yeah, alright… You’d better show up this weekend! Or I’ll climb over the fence again!”

 

Max grunted, vowed to find a way to—oh so accidentally—not be home this weekend.

 

Jim was gone when he got inside, but his dishes were clean, and all his clothes separated for washing, little paper bags on the worktop with canned soup and vegetables and bread.

 

There was a note on the counter; _‘Chinese in the fridge. Be careful, little bastards bite.’_

 

Max shook his head and went for the food.

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0


	8. Run Run Away

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

Toast was in the arena when Furiosa won. She spun herself around and around in her chair beating her fists in the air. Her older brother snorted, asked just what had happened to make her so happy.

 

“A woman won the War Rig!” She poked her tongue out at him; “She won, and I’m on her crew!”

 

“No way!” Aaron lunged forward, eyes wide, poking his finger against the small glowing skull hovering above Toast’s head, “Is it the American Woman you were telling me about?”

 

“Yeah!” She grinned broadly; “If we make it through the run I’ll have enough experience to fight for Imperator!”

 

“Nice!” Aaron mussed her hair; “Dad wants me to ride out to check on the herd, will you be OK here alone?”

 

“Of course! When will Dav and Skye be back with the truck?”

 

“Probably tonight—Why, got a date?”

 

“Haha—I wanted to go take more pictures in the morning.”

 

Aaron hummed, bent into the fridge to stuff sandwiches into his bag. “And you can’t do it now?”

 

“No way! We’ve got a run to make in a couple hours!”

 

“You’ll have to tell me how it goes,” He mussed her hair again as he passed, “Don’t forget about the goats.”

 

“I won’t!”

 

She danced back and forth in her seat and once her brother was gone dropped a CD into her laptop and turned it up all the way, carried it upstairs into her room still dancing and started pawing through her closet.

 

“TOOOOAST!” Came a voice from the game; “What the hell are you listening to!”

 

“It’s Happy Music! Furiosa won the fucking War Rig! I’m allowed to be happy!”

 

“I know, I saw! Lemon was right there on the fence! Saw EVERYTHING!”

 

“It was awesome!” Lemon shrieked.

 

“And as long as I don’t die on the run I can challenge for my title!”

 

“Does that mean you and Aaron are going to post more pictures?”

 

“Of course!”

 

“One of these days,” Lemon said excitedly; “I’m going to convince my dad to let me come visit you and we’ll have the best shoot on the whole site!”

 

“I’m sure Aaron would love that—“

 

“Your brother is so gorgeous.”

 

“My brother is a slut! You can do better.”

 

“OH! That girl was in Bartertown again today. The one who does the artwork? She had a guy hanging around her. He shot a War Boy in the leg for bothering her.”

 

Toast paused, intrigued; “Really?”

 

“Yeah—He doesn’t have a name though—I thought he was an NPC at first, but he’s got a health bar and an Experience Bar, and he types—Doesn’t talk.”

 

“Maybe he’s a woman.”

 

“I dunno. Still doesn’t explain why he doesn’t have a name.”

 

“Should I do Rider Gear tomorrow for the shoot, or my armor?”

 

“ARMOR!” Lemon said, echoed by two other voices.

 

“I haven’t seen your armor yet!” A boy’s voice.

 

“It took forever!” Toast muttered, “Dav doesn’t like me using his tools unless he’s there, and the leather was expensive.”

 

“You could make a fortune selling that stuff. Like—I know loads of people who would fall all over themselves to get it!”

 

“Maybe I’ll do up some pieces and sell them to get tickets for Comicon.”

 

“You’re going to OZcon!”

 

“If I can afford it. Hotels are expensive.”

 

“You should just stay with Lemon!”

 

“Wrong city!” Lemon said in a whine. “My dad said I couldn’t go! I’m so jealous!”

 

“OH! HERE COMES FURIOSA!”

 

Toast lunged toward her laptop, clothes scattered. “Furi! FURI! THAT WAS AMAZING! YOU SNAPPED HIS HEAD OFF LIKE A CHICKEN!”

 

“I have to supervise the freight, Ace is inspecting the rig. Toast, can you get the crew together? Get everyone up—“

 

“The loading bay! I’m on it!” She clicked away from Furiosa and started running up through the dark layers of the Citadel. Past War Boys, past Imperators, past pipes—She leapt over pools of water and scaled ladders through cramped spaces. Ran past a dark alcove where two War Boys were trading paint—and from the sound of it their players were enjoying themselves.

 

Up more ladders, and through hidden passageways too small for regular characters. She found herself in the loading bay, where most of the crew was already waiting. Each with a small skull above their heads, just like Toast’s, naming them the triumphant crew. A few other players were still milling about, members of other crews staying behind to watch, or possibly attempt sabotage.

 

Toast hoped she wouldn’t have to shoot anybody yet. “Who are we missing?” Morsov was sitting on top of the tanker with Tank cackling.

 

Rooster and Gazzer were sparing in the corner.

 

“Eh?” Rooster peeled away from the fight, “Oh! Tosser, Killfish, Lemon and the new guy she found.”

 

“Lemon’s following Furiosa up after she collects her friend, I think Killfish and Toss are on their way. I’ll go get them.”

 

**[Imperator Furiosa is Whispering in your ear.]**

**Accept. Ignore.**

 

“Furi! What’s up?”

 

“Toast—Do you know anybody who would want to tag along as patrol cars?”

 

She made a hollow sound in her throat and nearly ran into a wall. “I do but I have no idea if they’re online!”

 

“I don’t want to risk a hostile takeover, I want patrol cars.”

 

“Okay… Would a bike work?”

 

“I’d rather have a car, but a bike will work if you can’t find one.”

 

“Give me a few I’ll find Toss and—“

 

“Already taken care of, is everyone else in the bay?”

 

“Everybody but Lemon and her friend, are they with you?”

 

“Yeah. Okay, I’ll see you in a few.”

 

Furiosa’s image disappeared and Toast took a hard left down a wider corridor.  Paused and checked her task bar, the people on her friends’ list who were online were lit up blue, those who weren’t were dull gray.

 

There weren’t a lot of names on her list, but there were more than was average for a female player. She’d been active long enough to find just about everybody in the Citadel Loyalty and Bartertown that didn’t mind gamer girls.

 

She doubled clicked with a lump in her throat.

 

The image in the corner was gray for almost a full six seconds then lit up.

 

“Oh, thank SHIT! Cheedo! Furiosa won the War Rig! She needs patrol cars! Get your ass over here!”

 

“REALLY!” Cheedo practically shrieked; “Aunt Anita! Imperator Furiosa won the War Rig! She needs me to run a car in her convoy!”

 

“That’s lovely, Dear! Good job!”

 

“OH!” Cheedo gasped and her voice became quick huffs of urgent breath; “Toast—TOAST! I’ve got a friend! We’ve been playing for months, can she come too?”

 

“YEAH! Just get down here quick!”

 

And Toast ended the Whisper.

 

Cheedo was bouncing up and down in her seat, doubled clicked on Angharad’s Skype window, sent a loud noise to get her attention; “You are never going to believe what just happened!”

 

Angharad uncovered her camera a few minutes later, patting her hair dry. She was wearing a floppy t-shirt and silk pyjama pants; “What happened?”

 

“Furiosa won the War Rig! She wants us on her crew!”

 

Angharad’s eyes got very, very big; “You’re joking!”

 

“No! She needs us at the Citadel right away!”

 

Angharad threw her towel aside and clambered onto the bed, pulling her laptop from the desk across her knees; “I’ll be right there!”

 

0-0-0

 

Dag was waiting when he logged on the next morning and drove to their meeting place.

 

“It is you… What were you doing? Where’s all our salvage?”

 

He clicked and clicked and brought it all out of inventory. ‘I had to see something.’

 

“Uh-huh,” Dag said with an air of disdain. “You’re lucky Capable’s not on yet or I’d thrash you.”

 

He didn’t doubt that her character could eat his for breakfast so he said nothing.

 

Dag eventually became bored of waiting and wandered a ways out kicking the sand, made pleased humming noises, or sounds of disgust and annoyance. “Why all the rubber washers. What’s the fucking point?” She muttered, as if to herself.

 

Max snorted and pulled out the plans for his knee brace again, checked every option he had available and just couldn’t figure out a way to make something work. He yawned and rubbed his face, scratched blunt short nails against the hair on his cheeks. He needed to shave, either that or resign himself to growing a beard.

 

Next door there was a noise, Slit murdering something in the game.

 

“Oh-“ The kid said, then again in a loud excited cackle; “OH! LOOKIT HIS HEAD! LOOKIT HIS HEAD!” Slit screeched, a high peel of laughter that almost hurt Max’s ears.

 

Max turned and pounded his fist against the wall above the sofa.

 

Slit pounded back, it sounded like his foot, like he was lying in bed at three in the afternoon in his underpants playing videogames. “You missed it! Oh, my GOD! You MISSED IT!”

 

Max turned back to his screen. Felt the wall jar when Slit kicked it again; “You missed it, Mate! Imperator match! She just snapped his neck! SNAPPED IT!” Another shriek; “TWISTED IT ‘ROUND LIKE A FUCKIN’ CHICKEN!”

 

“Stop kickin’ the wall!”

 

Slit laughed again, “Oh, my God! Oh, my God.”

 

“You still there, Scav? Hellooo!”

 

Max peered down at his screen, saw Dag doing a strange interpretive dance in front of him with her claws out. It reminded him of Thriller. ‘Sorry. Neighbor’s carrying on.’

 

“Ah, that happens. You should try jumping on the bed and making sex noises back at ‘em. That always works.”

 

‘No. Just no.’

 

“Eh, your loss!”

 

‘He plays Wasteland too, he’s watching the Imperator Match?’

 

“OH!” Dag said in understanding; “Those can get really bloody!” She sounded excited.

 

‘What is it?’

 

“Well, Imperators fight to the death to win control of the War Rig. War Rig is like one of the biggest missions you can run in game,” She clicked herself back to normal; “We should go watch! Maybe they’ll wreck and we and we can make good salvage!”

 

‘What about Capable?’

 

Dag hummed thoughtfully. “We’ll wait a few more minutes. Runs don’t start until about five Oz time anyway. They’re insane!”

 

Max limped around for a while, kicked sand and found a few more pieces of desert glass. A sharp shard of a plane’s propeller the game said he could make into a knife and a cow vertebrae.

 

Capable appeared after about ten minutes, “Sorry for the wait, my uncle said I had to do my chores before I played,” She snuffed wetly, “Okay, where do we go now? Back to Bartertown?”

 

“Well, the War Rig is running today, Scav and I think it would be a good opportunity to make good salvage. Just stow everything we’ve got in Inventory, we’ll follow the Run, then swing back to Bartertown.”

 

“War Rig is running? YES!” Capable hissed; “I’ve always wanted to see it! I usually get shot for getting close, but maybe they won’t bother us if we’re with him.”

 

“Can we all fit in one car? We’ll be less likely to lose our stuff if we’re all in one.”

 

‘Interceptor only has one seat.’

 

“Mine it is then!” Dag says excitedly. “I call Gunner!” And she clambered up onto the gunner’s perch.

 

“Scav drives! I want lancer!” Capable climbed into the gunner’s perch with Dag.

 

‘Will nobody steal it?’ Max doesn’t move from beside his car; ‘I like this one.’

 

Dag giggles; “Aw, poor scav! You can hide it, but I don’t think anybody’ll bother it. Everyone’s going to be watching the run.”

 

‘Are you sure?’

 

“No, but odds are nobody’ll touch it. Who wants that ratty old thing anyway.”

 

‘I actually drive one of these things.’

 

“What, like, in real life?”

 

‘It’s not modified like this, but yes.’

 

“That’s precious,” Dag said in a bored tone; “Now, come ON! We’re going to miss it!”

 

He muttered to himself and limped to the driver’s side of the demon rod, slid behind the wheel and started heading south-west.

 

Capable turned some sort of music on after a minute or two, Max had never heard it before, but apparently Dag had and they started singing long to it in sarcastic voices. Laughed.

 

“Game needs radio,” Capable said; “That’d be fantastic.”

 

“No radio in the game,” Dag said sadly; “All radios and televisions and phones are dead tech.”

 

“But there’s guitar music?”

 

“Don’t get me started,” Dag said with a sigh; “Suspend your disbelief!”

 

‘The nuclear fallout would have fried radios and cell stations, but you can rig a car engine to power an amplifier with a little determination,’ Max typed and locked in the car’s throttle. ‘AFK.’

 

“Oh, so you’re a cop _and_ a genius?” Dag said with a tone that made Max think she was rolling her eyes.

 

“Wait, you’re really a cop? I thought you were kidding!”

 

“Yeah, he’s a cop apparently.”

 

“Wow…” She giggled.

 

Dag made an unattractive sounding snort; “He’s AFK, we’re totally on a screaming fast car with nobody behind the wheel!”

 

Capable whined; “What are you doing, Scav? We don’t want to die, come back!”

 

“Maybe he’s in the toilet.”

 

They both cackled.

 

Max shuffled back to the computer, ‘Coffee and food. I just woke up a bit ago.’

 

“Ooh!” Capable said; “You have a lie in?”

 

‘Night shift.’

 

“Ew,” Dag hummed. “Hang on—got a Whisper,” Her headset made a clattering noise and Max could vaguely hear her clicking keys on her laptop then the sound stopped entirely.

 

Capable sighed; “So, where are you from, Scav?”

 

‘NSW.’

 

“Eh?”

 

‘Australia.’

 

“Oh! Stupid… I came from New Zealand. But had to move… I might be able to go back—when my parents work it out that is.”

 

‘Never been to New Zealand.’

 

“It’s great… I miss the forests… Not many trees around here.”

 

Dag screamed.

 

Max felt it along every nerve in his body, unlocked the throttle and snapped the car to a stop.

 

“Dag? Dag, what’s wrong?” Capable said urgently. “Dag, can you hear me?”

 

The girl’s headset rattled, Max could hear her breathing fast and deep; “She won! SHE WON!”

 

“Who won? What are you talking about?”

 

“FURIOSA WON THE WAR RIG! A _GIRL_ WON THE WAR RIG!” There were noises in the background, thumping sounds as if Dag were bouncing up and down with her computer on the hotel bed. “Cheedo—Cheedo Whispered me, she got asked to be on Furiosa’s crew!”

 

“Who’s Furiosa?” Capable said.

 

“Imperator at the Citadel. Shaved head, metal arm. She’s badass. I saw her break a War Boy’s neck once—Just grabbed him and SQUEEZED!”

 

‘The woman whose medic helped with my leg?’

 

“YES!”

 

‘And this is a big deal?’

 

“A War Girl’s never won the War Rig before! She was one of the first female Imperators, this—this is unbelievable!” Dag’s bouncing settled and Max could hear the grin in her voice; “An’ Cheedo’s gonna be on her crew— Look at the brackets on the events page! Oh, my GODS! She snapped his head off!” She chuckled darkly; “Snapped that nasty smeg Rictus’s head around on his neck!” She made a noise between her teeth. “Oh, I can’t wait for this run! They’ll be so angry!”

 

“Who’ll be angry?”

 

‘Assholes, probably.’

 

“Yeah,” Dag said, hummed loudly and off key; “Hey, Capable, got any good victory music? All I’ve got is Tchaikovsky and I hear it enough.”

 

“Uh—“ The girl hummed, “Yeah, any preferences?”

 

“Something I can break War Boys to,” Dag swung the fifty caliber around and sighted through the scope. “Something with teeth.”

 

Capable snorted; “Yeah, I think I’ve got something like that.”

 

0-0-0

 

Furiosa couldn’t hear much. Joe was making his speech but Ben was Whispering to her. Three members of his crew—One of which, unsurprisingly was Anderson—had joined up to run patrol for her. Ben said plainly that he would have joined, but couldn’t. Only one Imperator who had fought in the Matches, could be on a crew.

 

“I’ll see if I can get Dave to wake up—Hell, I didn’t even think you still played or I would have looked for you sooner!” Ben was clicking on his keyboard, muttering into his headset. He snorted; “My aunt Sylvia plays, but she’s in Vegas right now and I doubt she’d leave the Craps tables unless I paid her.”

 

“It’s fine, really. I’ve got Lemon’s girlfriend logging on as we speak, and Cheedo brought her friend, that gives me an extra six people, that’s more than I could have hoped for.”

 

“Yeah, but you know Rictus isn’t gonna be happy… He’s probably slobbering and raiding the ammunitions shop right now.”

 

“What about that other guy—Barbados-Bill! The guy from Schenectady you were Skyping.”

 

“HIM?” Ben’s voice pitched up, “You want me to see if he’ll join your crew?”

 

“I pissed off a lot of Imperators.”

 

Ben whined, “Furi, I—“ A groan, “He sent me dick pics and I didn’t even ask for them.”

 

“Ew… Was it nice at least?”

 

“Oh, god yes… but that’s not the point!”

 

Furiosa snorted; “Then what is the point?”

 

“You’ll interrogate him. I know you! You—you’re like that! You Mom-Friend me!”

 

She tilted her head to the side, nodded. “It’s for your own good.”

 

Ben sighed, “Fine… But please—PLEASE don’t try to scare him off?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Mhmm, sure thing, Pumpkin.”

 

The crowd of War Boys cheered on the higher levels of the garage, “VEE-EIGHT! VEE-EIGHT! VEE-EIGHT!” And the gates creaked open before her.

 

The road was elevated at first, the Wretched couldn’t get into the garages, and a second set of gates kept them out of the road, but a few, especially players infected with Wretch climbed the fences as the convoy passed out of the tower.

 

Everything was smooth, even out of the second gate, and it made Furiosa very nervous.

 

The Run Map appeared in the upper left corner of her screen and it was almost a relief to see the red skull shaped blips of hostiles coming up on her six.

 

Ace noticed too; “THUNDER UP! THUNDER UP!”

 

“What does that mean?” Cheedo’s friend said in a hushed voice.

 

“It means get your gun ready,” Cheedo said. “Shoot anything that gets too close.”

 

“Got it!”

 

“Boss! Looks like we’ve got spectators!”

 

“Spect-POTATOES!” Lemon shrieked, excited; “We’ve got a crowd!”

 

“EYES RIGHT! EYES ON!”

 

Furiosa could see the blip on the map, hear the roar of an engine and she panned the screen right, saw a silver car approaching quickly with a War Boy perched on top hands lifted in the sign of the Eight.

 

“IMPERATOR!”

 

It was a male voice, late teens, early twenties.

 

“IMPERATOR FURIOSA!”

 

The car came even with her front tires and the boy turned on his perch, still saluting and chanting ‘Vee-eight!’ in the background.

 

The War Boy’s player spoke again; “Can we take point? My roommate and me wanna ride with yooou!”

 

Ace dropped his War Boy onto the roof of the rig, feet on the hood and pointed a gun at them. “Who was your Imperator Before?”

 

“Lucky!” The driver said, “He’s not coming back and we wanna Run.”

 

“What’a you say, Boss?” He must be Whispering with the crew because after a moment he said; “I’ve got no objections from them.”

 

Furiosa hesitated, cleared her throat and nodded to herself, shifted the cursor over the War Boys and clicked ‘Invite to Crew’ with a weight in her gut. “Don’t make me regret it, Boys.”

 

Their names were Chum_Fucket and BuzzsawWetDreams247. Chum and Buzz.

 

Buzz, the lancer cheered and Chum laid the Nitrous onto the engine, flamed the exhaust out in front of the rig.

 

It was about then Ace clambered back to his post, “EYES RIGHT! EYES RIGHT!”

 

And the gunfire started.

 

0-0-0

 

“Oh! OH! I can see it!” Capable said from the gunner’s perch, eye bent to the fifty-cal’s scope. “Whoa! That thing’s huge!”

 

Max could barely make out a black spot on the horizon. Part of him wanted to shift his character into the perch and see what could be made out through the scope but the girls were kind of hogging it.

 

“I see flamers already,” Dag said in a low drawl. “Hope the rig’s not too damaged… No good salvage in metal and produce if it’s shot to shit.”

 

Max found it disconcerting that Dag expected the rig to be overrun.

 

“They look to be holding up well,” Capable said. “Can we get closer?”

 

“We’ll be closer soon enough,” Dag said evenly.

 

They were parked a hundred meters or so from the road and Max had been hearing the low rattle of Buzzard engines for a while now, but they didn’t seem to be getting closer, just waiting for the rig apparently.

 

“There’s lots of people trying to overtake them,” Capable said in dismay. “Mostly War Boys—Why do they do that if it’ll hurt the Citadel?”

 

“Because they’re traitorous smegs who’d rather see the rig wrecked than Run by a woman.”

 

“Oh, so they’re trolls?”

 

“More or less,” Dag hummed, “AFK…” Her microphone scuffed against fabric and was quiet for almost a full minute. In that time the Rig grew exponentially larger and Max could hear the ruckus of it growing.

 

Gunfire and explosions and engines roaring.

 

“Back—“

 

Dag crunched something, sounded like crisps or maybe Cheerios, Max had no idea, but it made his stomach growl. All he’d had was coffee and even if it was late he wanted food, gauged the nearness of the rig to the nearness of his cupboards and whether or not he could shove bread into the toaster and be back in his seat before the Buzzards appeared.

 

He felt his nose wrinkle, decided the risk was worth it and typed a quick ‘AFK’, or what he’d intended to be AFK. What came out was something different. ‘SFL’

 

“Eh?” Dag’s voice was pitched through her nose.

 

Capable made a sound in the back of her throat; “Er—What?”

 

“I’ve got no clue,” Dag said, amused.

 

Capable gasped; “Scav? Scav we’ve got Buzzards at four-o-clock—Scav!”

 

Max lunged away from the bread box and dropped the slices into the toaster, jammed the lever down once and again when it wouldn’t stick, danced around the end of the worktop and bounced across his sofa, clicked before he even paid attention and ran the car right into the path of the War Rig.

 

“SCAV!” Dag shrieked but the rig missed them.

 

Max swerved to miss a pursuit vehicle and took out a War Boy on a motorbike with a long lance aimed at Furiosa’s crew.

 

“Ooo!” Dag said, “Wow, lots of blood!”

 

“Ew!” Capable turned the gun and popped the head off a Buzzard, “Hey, I know—“ She snarled leapt off the Demon Rod as it made a tight corner and ran at the disabled vehicle.

 

“CAPABLE!” Dag called; “WHAT ARE YOU—“

 

But the girl had dragged the Buzzard’s body out of the car and climbed in herself, chuckled darkly and gunned the engine. “I’ve got you now you horrible, stinking—“

 

And she rammed the Buzzard’s car right into the back end of a War Boy’s bike, ran him down and kept going.

 

Max’s eyebrows met his hairline; “Wow,” He maneuvered the Demon Rod back on track following the rig, let Dag pick off a couple War Boys and Buzzards, typed quickly; ‘Remind me never to make her angry.’

 

Dag snorted.

 

A car appeared to Max’s left, sideswiped them and threw a lance at their back wheels but Dag swung the gun toward them and put three rounds right into their fuel tanks.

 

The explosion was loud, even for the game, buckled the driver’s door of the car, and the edges of Max’s screen went pale again, his health bar suddenly had a large chunk missing from it. He tapped the control button and typed angrily; ‘Are you trying to kill me?’

 

“Sorry, Scav!”

 

The bare noise of so many voices and explosions was nerve wracking… It—it made Max’s brainstem hurt, made his heart race in a way that was by no means pleasant. He could smell his toast burning. “FUCK!” He locked the accelerator on the car and darted up, snatched the bread from the toaster and dropped it quickly on the worktop, poking singed fingers between his lips.

 

“SCAV!”

 

He snarled at the computer, heard Slit cackling from the other side of the wall and—and couldn’t take it. He shoved one piece of toast between his teeth and stomped back to his computer, turned off the sound and typed in all caps;

 

‘YOU’LL HAVE TO TYPE! I HAD TO TURN THE SOUND OFF!’

 

Dag’s character was firing at a War Boy’s car in front of their own and Max’s health was still ticking down for some reason. Probably his damned knee.

 

‘WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU TURNED THE SOUND OFF!’ Capable’s script appeared in the text pane.

 

‘Too noisy.’

 

She replied with greater-than sign, a colon and a capital C.

 

Max took slow deep breaths trying to keep himself calm and enjoy his food, tucked his knees up closer to his face, laptop pressed open as wide as it would go against his thighs. He shot at a Raider come in from the wastes, knocked them off their bike and didn’t even flinch as the Rig ran them over.

 

And then a black box appeared in the middle of his screen.

 

**[Capable_of_Mayhem has Accepted Imperator Furiosa’s request to merge crews.]**

 

And a little yellow flaming skull appeared above his head. Suddenly the Buzzards and Raiders were trying to attack him too and Dag was shooting madly.

 

“Wait,” He lifted his hands away from the keyboard, “What just happened? I—I didn’t agree to this!” He shoved his toast between his teeth, typed frantically; ‘Capble I didnt agree to this whas ghappeining? whats tihs skull thing and why is it foollowing me?’

 

It was Dag who replied, ‘She accepted Furiosa’s invite we’re part of the war rig crew now just don’t die or we respawn back at the citadel’

 

“No… No, I don’t—“ He snarled, tapped his fingers violently against the keys; ‘do not want.’

 

‘Well, short of dying and fighting your way out of the citadel you don’t have a choice.’

 

He could hear Dag’s voice in his head, shrill with irritation.

 

He could feel his heart pounding in his eyeballs.

 

‘Scav keep your head!’ Capable again.

 

A War Boy launched a lance into their path and the Demon Rod jerked, swerved hard against the side of the Rig. Max turned his camera and saw Dag hunched down in the back, the machine gun broken off and the tail gate and driver’s fender missing completely. There was a War Boy on the Rig reaching down toward her and as Max watched she latched on and was hauled aboard.

 

The Rod lurched again and a gray warning box appeared on his screen.

 

**[Abandon Demon Rod? Go down in Flames?]**

 

‘SCAV GET ON RIG NOW!’

 

He didn’t know how exactly, not really, fired three shots out the window at the nearest hostile and wedged the accelerator down. Ground his teeth and hit ‘Abandon Demon Rod’. Watched the little man on the screen scurry lamely out the window and latch onto a set of climbing rungs on the side of the tanker. A War Boy was hovering above him, leaned over the edge of the tanker with a gun. He stowed the gun and grabbed Max by the arm, pulled him up just as the Demon Rod swerved violently away from the rig, collided with a War Boy in a supped up Duce Coupe and exploded.

 

Slit shouted; “SHIT!”

 

It was then that Max saw it. Not Gastown looming closer with every passing second, but the bloody hole low on his character’s left side. The edges of his screen were pale again, shivery and he finally noticed the deficit in his health bar, typed quickly; ‘I’m hit,’ and the War Boy pulling him up typed back; ‘Tosser’s on the way.’

 

There wasn’t really much he could do, his character was led into a little blind atop the tanker and there was Tosser.

 

Max hesitantly clicked the speaker button again, turned the volume low enough that the sounds of explosions and revving engines and gunfire weren’t so overwhelming, could hear Tosser talking.

 

“Damn, got you good didn’t it. Stay still.”

 

Max lifted his hands away from the keys, thought twice and stood completely, went back to the kitchen for more toast and something to liven it up a bit. Jim had stuffed some beans somewhere, or some jam. Something, dry toast was intolerable.

 

From the computer he heard sounds of battle and Tosser talking. “You need a transfusion, you’re loosing blood too rapidly I don’t know if I can do anything more than sew you up and hope for the best,” A pause, “Shit, do you know your bloodtype?”

 

Max abandoned the toaster once he’d made sure the latch stayed down and approached the computer, saw Tosser’s hands moving rapidly, blurred. ‘Game’s got bloodtypes?’

 

“Yep… I could type you, but not here, not during a battle. We’ll have a few minutes in Gastown I’ll do it then.”

 

The yellow down tick of his health slowed, hovered at about one quarter.

 

“We’re close to the line—anybody dead yet?” It was familiar—the woman from Bartertown with the mechanical arm.

 

Another voice, low—heavily accented. “Nope. Even Morsov’s still around!”

 

Morsov?

 

Max shook his head. Not possible.

 

“It’s not like I TRY to get killed!”

 

Fuck, it was him.

 

“Okay, nobody die, we’re almost there!”

 

A spray of bullets ripped through the blind, barely missed Tosser and the War Boy—Tank—who’d helped Max aboard, and then a box appeared on screen, and a long screaming riff of guitar music echoed in his speakers.

 

**[Your Convoy has reached the Gastown boarders.]**

**+10 Experience**

**[Your Crew has completed Part One of Four of the Run]**

**+10 Experience**

**[Your Crew made it to Gastown with 0 lost lives and 0 lost product.]**

**+25 Experience**

 

The rig rolled up to Gastown without incident. The raiding parties and hostiles stuck at the boarder.

 

There was a sudden banging noise on Max’s kitchen door and he turned his head, eyes wide, nose wrinkled and found Slit standing there scowling. He didn’t like the look on the kid’s face, lifted his chin and shouted; “What!”

 

“I got blown up! We reset to the Citadel and have to drive back out. What’re you doing?”

 

Max blinked slowly, felt a cold burn of realization on the back of his tongue; “I’m… hmm—“ He swallowed, blurted the first thing that came to mind; “Watching sports.”

 

Slit seemed only minimally interested, his shoulders sagged and he scratched one of the tattoos on his shoulder, eyes squinted as he peered in through the glass; “Your toaster’s on fire.”

 

Max practically threw the computer to the other end of the couch and launched himself around the edge of the worktop, jerked the cord from the wall socket and caught the machine by its lower edges, lifted it and made for the door with his lips pulled back from his teeth.

 

Slit jerked the sliding door open and cackled as Max lunged over the steps to the back of the yard, threw the toaster to the dirt by the fence and ran back to the deck, uncoiled his hose and sprayed the flaming thing vigorously. Snarling and growling until it had extinguished, then sprayed Slit’s heels just because he felt spiteful. Sprayed up the side of the fence until the kid was gone with a shriek from the cold water.

 

He went back to his game grumbling and wafting the stink of smoke from the room. Nudged the overhead fan on as he passed and collapsed across the couch.

 

The rig was parked in Gastown now and the crew was moving around. The game said the air was sulfurous and heavy with heat and smoke. He saw Dag and Capable standing a ways with guns, their characters turned together as if they were talking. Maybe they were Whispering. There was a list of messages waiting in the text window.

 

‘Scav are you OK?’ Dag. ‘What happened!’

 

‘Scav are you there?’ Tosser.

 

‘Scav are you glitching?’ Dag again.

 

‘Is he unconscious?’ Tosser.

 

‘Why are you typing to me? I’m sitting right there!’ Tank.

 

‘What’s happening?’ Capable.

 

‘The stupid bastard’s hurt and he won’t respond!’ Dag.

 

‘Maybe he’s AFK?’

 

‘Maybe.’

 

“Are you still there, mate?” It was the War Boy with all the lumps, the one with a black brow, goggles and a low voice.

 

‘Sorry, RL emergency. Back now.’

 

“Ah, good! OH!” a few quiet clicks, ‘Sorry, forgot you couldn’t hear us,’ Ace. The War Boy’s name was Ace— _Imperator Ace._

 

‘No, I can hear you now. It just got too—‘ He hesitated, shook his head and erased the last four words.

 

“Good, Toss tried to blood type you and couldn’t. You’re a walking glitch apparently. No name, no blood type… He wants to move you into the cab, you’ll be less likely to die from gettin’ thrown around in there.”

 

‘OK.’

 

Moving to the cab was easier said than done. Every little move ticked his health down, but he managed it without dying. Found himself seated in the passenger side of the empty Rig. He couldn’t do much, just sat there watching his health bar hover, a tick up a tick down. A tick up, another down.

 

Toss came back a few minutes later with Gastown medical supplies, constructed a wide fat bandage for his wound and gave him some kind of medicine. “Just don’t do anything stupid,” A sigh, “Where’s that Shiny girl? Get her up here, maybe she’ll help.”

 

Dag appeared, climbed into the rig and settled into the big seat behind him. “I’ll sit until we move out again, but I’m not staying in here. Not when I can be slaughtering War Boy smegs.”

 

“Steady on!” Tosser said, mock offended.

 

“Not you… The ones who chased Capable,” Her voice was low, deadly. “How are you, Scav? Are you still angry about the Merge?”

 

He wasn’t angry, not really, just uncomfortable. It wasn’t easy being around so many people, so much chaos. The games he played at home had a kind of reason to them. Wasteland just—It was a whole different experience.

 

**[Imperator Furiosa bargained a 15% Profit with The_People_Eater.]**

**+3 Experience.**

 

Dag hummed; “Damn, they weren’t kidding. War Rig’s a goldmine!”

 

Max’s health ticked up a couple places without losing any ground.

 

“Scav, say something… I—I feel like you’re angry with us.”

 

He sighed, ‘Not angry.’

 

“No?”

 

‘Not angry, just don’t like noise.’

 

“Ah,” She inhaled deeply; “You can change your audio settings, just turn down the FX, it’s a lot easier to listen to then.”

 

He clicked around on his toolbars found a yellow-gray button under his four chosen abilities that seemed to do absolutely nothing and finally discovered the audio controls. Turned the three FX bars down to about ten of fifty and discovered he could hear more of the players.

 

Could hear Capable’s music, someone was watching a Youtube video and chuckling. Yet another person had a cat that was purring close to their mic. Small sounds of life.

 

“Boss is coming, shape up!” Ace, jogged back over to the rig from where he’d been checking out the Gastown Boys moving the shimmering boxes of freight. The Crew crowded back around the rig, climbed on or back into their cars.

 

“Anybody who wants to do some trading better do it in the next five minutes,” Furiosa approached the rig quickly, swung herself up to perch on the running board and waited for any crewmember who may decide to scamper off for a few.

 

Nobody moved. She inhaled deeply, audibly, “Okay, here’s the plan… I saw the roads from the People Eater’s office, most of the raiding parties are gathered around the Northern gate… There’s only a few buzzards and Duos at the Eastern gate. If we take it we can be halfway to the Point before the cars at the Northern gate make it to us.

 

“The Eastern Gate leads right into Buzzard country,” a War Girl said.

 

“Yeah, but it’s not on the main road and most of them are NPC, so they’ll attack anything that moves, not just us. If we can make it through them they’ll take care of some of our ‘friends’, or at least slow them down so that we’ll pass the Second Point before they have a chance of stopping us.”

 

“Do you think we have a chance of finishing?” Another girl, this one with a strong German accent.

 

Furiosa’s character didn’t move, but her voice shook as she inhaled and let it out; “I am going to finish this run. I won’t let them intimidate me. I won’t let them take this from us. I will do everything I can to make sure this run gets finished… Ace is my second, if I get killed he takes over and you keep going. There are two Imperators on this Run, they can’t take over anything unless we’re both gone.”

 

“But if we die we go back to the Citadel… I think I’d rather go Historic!”

 

Ace spoke up, “No, nobody’s going Historic!”

 

“Hey!” Buzz said excitedly, “Half our crew’s still at the Citadel. You respawn in the Blood Shed, right? I can get at least five of them up there incase someone kicks it. You won’t have to put up with that creepo Needles.”

 

“There!” Ace said with an audible sigh of relief, “Problem solved!”

 

“Okay,” The girls said, one after another, “Who can you get up there, just in case?”

 

Chum spoke up; “He’s Whispering them right now.”

 

It took a while, long enough that Furiosa sighed and advised everyone to take a ‘Piss Break’. Five or so players went AFK and Max was considering it when he heard the thud of Slit’s feet against the deck and whipped his head around to stare with his computer held to his chest.

 

The kid had a toaster with a disturbing picture of Jesus on it tucked under his arm, a half loaf of bread and a jar of Vegemite. “You can use this one,” He plugged the toaster up, “Mum got it for me when I left for Uni… It—uh—It makes Jesus toast,” He dropped two slices in and nonchalantly opened Max’s fridge looking for beer.

 

Max stared at him, disturbed.

 

“Just—uh—I’ll need it back if she comes to visit,” He popped open the beer and took a long drink—went back for a second and left—didn’t even shut the door behind himself.

 

Max stared at the toaster and the little face on it, squinted trying to read the words printed below it, 'Daily Bred'. "'the fuck?"

 

“Dag? How did you get here?” Furiosa was climbing into the rig now, “And you brought the Nameless Scav?”

 

“You Merged our crew,” Dag’s voice was pitched accusingly.

 

“What?" Furiosa sounded genuinely confused, "Your crew? Ooh,” She sighed; “She didn’t tell me she had a crew already.”

 

“Was just the three of us, so it’s not a big deal,” Dag muttered; “I just—I don’t want to get killed and sent to the Citadel,” Her voice dropped; “I don’t like it there.”

 

Furiosa hummed knowingly; “You can stay here if you want.”

 

“Gastown’s just as bad.”

 

“Defect?”

 

“Then you'll lose points.”

 

Furiosa hummed, “As much as I appreciate the thought, I’d rather you be safe than get some stupid Experience. If you log out it works too.”

 

“Yeah, but then I lose my car… It got blown up on the road, as long as I don’t die and we finish the run I can Recover it, it'll be like an Event loss, instead of an actual LOSS.”

 

For the first time since Max had met her, Dag sounded genuinely worried.

 

“What about the Scav?”

 

“He caught shrapnel from a lance, your Organic patched him up but his health’s down pretty low and he’s a Glitch so he doesn’t have a proper blood type.”

 

“It’d probably reset itself if he logs off and back on.”

 

Max pondered that for half a second and shook his head, ‘I'm not leaving them here alone.’

 

Furiosa made a noise—if he hadn’t turned the FX volume down he never would have heard it. A soft hum of something like approval.

 

“Imperator!” It was Buzz again, “I’ve got four from our old crew waiting in the Blood Shed if someone dies. They’ll help ‘em get out, and a fifth with Lucky’s trade rig if you need backup!”

 

“A second rig? Can we do that?” Ace again.

 

“They can’t Crew, it’s against the rules, but they’re welcome to tag along and help pick off some of this raiding party bullshit. They’ll get some prime salvage.”

 

Buzz's character climbed back into his car; “I’ll let ‘em know.”

 

“Is there anybody opposed to going out the Eastern Gate?” Furiosa said evenly.

 

Nobody seemed to have any objection.

 

“Looks like we’re good,” Ace said.

 

Furiosa’s character’s hands blurred over the wheel and dash a little yellow bar above her head filling. The Rig rumbled into life and Dag climbed out, slid into the confiscated Buzzard car with Capable.

 

“Be careful, Scav!” Dag muttered, “Don’t die on us!”

 

Capable made a loud kissing sound; “Good luck!”

 

Buzz and Chum led them on a short ride through Gastown. It was a dark place with buildings made of discarded tin and the ruins of old concrete sheds. A town sprung up around an oil refinery. Max had a feeling he could find this place on a Google map if he wanted to look, all pristine and legal. He wondered what kind of deal the game developers had to broker with the oil company to turn their refinery into a dank, horrible city.

 

The Jesus Toaster popped and Max sat the computer aside and eagerly rushed to fetch it. Stared because yep, the toast had Jesus on it. He hesitated, a little frightened by it, then scratched brown paste over the buttered Christ and went back to the couch.

 

There was a little alert on Max’s screen.

 

**[Imperator Furiosa is Whispering in your ear.]**

**Accept. Ignore.**

 

He gave his head a shake, swallowed and stared down at the toast with a whimper. “I just wanted to eat in peace—“ He held the slice between his teeth and typed; ‘I don’t have a headset.’

 

‘You on a laptop or a desktop?’

 

Why was she typing when he could hear her fine? ‘Laptop.’

 

‘The built in mic works for Whispers, just not the public VOIP.’

 

He hesitated, chewed slowly, felt a weird tight feeling in his lungs and gut. What did you talk about while gaming? He usually did it alone, nobody to talk to but perhaps himself and that wasn't weird, was it? He glanced right, to make sure Slit wasn’t in his yard, or anywhere he could hear—

 

And clicked Accept.

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (For your viewing pleasure, Slit’s toaster can be found here; www.burntimpressions.com/jesus-toasters.php)


	9. Rage Against the Dying of the Light

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

Her picture appeared in the upper right corner, “Just for my own curiosity,” Furiosa said evenly; “Dag doesn’t crew with anybody. And I do mean ANYBODY!” She paused to let that sink in, “What makes you so special?”

 

Max made a stupid sound in the back of his throat; “Uhhhm.”

 

Furiosa snorted; “Holy shit, you are a man.”

 

“Uhm—“

 

“Capable told me what you did. Sniping the War Boys who were chasing her, giving her a gun—Not many players would do that.”

 

“Mmm—“

 

Furiosa chuckled, turned the rig around a sharp corner and came to a stop, waiting for the Eastern Gate to be opened. “You don’t talk much, do you.”

 

“Hn… not really.”

 

“You got a name? Or should I keep calling you Scav?”

 

“It—uh—“ He swallowed his mouthful of toast, “Scav’s fine for the game.”

 

“Are you that shy? Really?”

 

“’not shy.”

 

“Is it a medical thing? ‘cause if I’m making you uncomfortable I’ll stop.”

 

“No… no, just—“ He breathed in and out, “—Not used to people.”

 

“First time gaming online?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You picked a hell of a game to pop that cherry on.”

 

He snorted, felt a little more at ease.

 

“I’m Furiosa, by the way.”

 

“Mhm, knew that, it’s right there—“

 

“Yeah, it’s my screenname too.”

 

“Oh—Your—your actual name is…”

 

“Yep.”

 

“That’s—“

 

“Unusual?”

 

“—nice.”

 

She  accelerated out the gate with two long pulls on the Rig’s horn. “I’ve always liked it… So, Capable said you’re a cop?”

 

“She told you that?”

 

“I take it it’s not true?”

 

“No—no it’s true, I just—I’m not sure how I feel—“ He cleared his throat, “’kids talking about me.”

 

“They’re not bad… Well, Capable seems kind of excitable but they’re not bad.”

 

“No.”

 

“If I’m making you uncomfortable—“

 

“No… You’re just the first adult I’ve interacted with… Well, other than Slit.”

 

“Slit?”

 

“Neighbor… He’s—Well, this makes twice I’ve killed him.”

 

Furiosa laughed—it was a soft, restrained sound, like wind through an open window. “War Boy?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“He probably loves it.”

 

He hummed in agreement, checked his inventory and readied his nine-millimeter. He could see Buzzards in the distance.

 

“So, nameless scav is an Australian cop… I apparently attract those.”

 

“You mean Morsov?”

 

“How did you—“

 

Max hummed, “We—uh—work together… Just, don’t tell him, he’s,” A sigh.

 

“Intense?”

 

“’was going to say zealous, but that sounds less cruel.”

 

“Now I’m curious. You know Morsov in real life—Is he as accident prone in the real world as he is on here?”

 

“No.”

 

“Damn… Do Aussie cops tell funny stories about one another like American ones do? If I asked him about the shy coworker with the deep voice would he tell me something outrageous?”

 

Max felt heat rise to his face. “Uh—“

 

“Bingo! So are you a partier or a home body?”

 

“Ahm… There a reason for all the questions?”

 

“You’re crewing up with my girls, I’ve gotta be the respectable Imperator and interrogate their friends.”

 

“Your girls?”

 

“I heard what you were doing with them… Heard you shot a few War Boys so Dag and Capable could work on a quest without being harassed. Other than me and my crew I haven’t met anybody else who would do that. I just want to make sure you’re not going to hurt them.”

 

“I wouldn’t do that.”

 

Furiosa was quiet for a moment, “I’ll hold you to that…” She made a satisfied humming sound and changed the subject; “Okay. Any of the guns that glow green you can access. Just run your cursor around the cab and you’ll find them.” 

 

He tried it, found a couple that shimmered gray yellow at the edges but when he tried to pick it up an ‘Error’ message popped up. He tightened his jaw and tried for another [Flare Gun]. Reached for one over his head and his health ticked down. “I’ll just use mine.”

 

“Suit yourself.”

 

There was a glowing line in the sand some distance away, the Gastown Boarder. On the other side waited two cars, each with two War Boys in them, a third was speeding away toward the other gate.

 

“Boss!” He could hear Ace in the background and Furiosa’s image disappeared from the corner of his screen.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Lemon wants to try and snipe them out of our way.”

 

“Be my guest!”

 

Lemon, one of the War Girls, made a low snarling sound; “Fuck YEAH!”

 

“How many bullets you got?” Furiosa hit some switch on the dashboard and the rig’s rumbling eased somewhat—Hydraulics probably, or aircushions. An advanced suspension.

 

“Twelve. I’ve got plenty! Been saving up for this!” The War Girl dropped onto the roof of the Rig then onto the hood, leveled her rifle out along the top of one of the air scoops.

 

BANG! One of the yellow Health Bars from a lancer was gone.

 

BANG! There went the other lancer.

 

BANGBANGBANG! The driver of the first car started shooting at them. Weak ineffective rounds because he only had a pistol without his lancer there to man the machine gun.

 

BANG! BANG! BANG! It took three shots for Lemon to get him.

 

The other driver was pulling quickly away, heading North away from them.

 

A low chomping guitar riff rose as they reached the Boarder line.

 

**[Your Convoy has entered Buzzard Territory!]**

 

From the back of the rig a chant from the characters was arising.

 

“Fang it! FANG IT!”

 

Furiosa’s voice grinned and her character yanked on the gear shift, pulled up some toggle or switch and the Rig leapt forward.

 

The lead car was already shooting ahead, flames spurting from their exhaust pipes.

 

The Buzzards were relentless. Nine cars and more appearing over the dunes in all directions.

 

Max was invariably reminded of a nest of Jack Jumpers he’d seen attacking a corpse years ago, back when he’d just been fresh from the Academy. He’d been called to the scene and wound up with half a dozen of them up the leg of his trousers. An autopsy on the elderly man had confirmed the cause of death was an aneurism, not anaphylaxis because of the stings, which was lucky he supposed. But he still hated the damned ants. Rolled his lips back from his teeth and snarled quietly in satisfaction while shooting at them.

 

He ran out of bullets quick enough, a pistol wasn’t much against a spike covered car. He pulled his rifle out of inventory and took a single shot—watched his health tick down from the recoil and thought better of taking another.

 

Damn.

 

He scoured the cab of the rig found gun after gun but all of them proclaimed ‘Error.’ When he tried to click on them. He growled, frustrated and snapped a finger down against the control button, ‘I can’t use any of these guns!’

 

Furiosa didn’t notice his words immediately and when she did she made a huffing noise; “The green ones!” She threw open her door and stepped out onto the running board, lobbed a grenade into the window slit of the nearest Buzzard’s car and swung back into the cab, laid on the nitrous and slammed hard into the one trying to ram Buzz and Chum, knocked it spinning onto its top.

 

Max felt his face contort; ‘Which ones are green!’

 

“What!” Furiosa’s voice was pitched low, disbelieving; “What do you mean ‘which ones are green!’ The green ones are green!” She sucked in a quick breath, “Oh. You can’t… Okay—“ She was quiet for a four count, scrolled her own cursor over the guns, “Under the dash in front of you— the shotgun, and the one above it. Loaded fully automatic.”

 

When he clicked the specs of the gun appeared in a long tab on the left hand side of the screen. He didn’t even look at it, pointed the gun out the window and took aim at the nearest Buzzard. The sound effect was hyper realistic, more of a rattle than individual pops like his gun. It was strangely amusing watching the Buzzard behind the wheel convulse and flash black in death. The car swerved hard into the side of the rig, bounced off and rolled, nearly took out a set of War Boys in a red patrol car.

 

He checked the gun’s specs, found six more long clips full and ready.

 

“There’s a Sig in the lining above your head to the left, and a Glock in the floor next to the gearshift. Any time you see two skulls mounted together on a rig that are looking in opposite directions there’s a hidden weapon in it. Just punch them and you’re good… There’s also revolver in the side pocket of your seat.”

 

He found them all, collected them in his lap and tried to ignore the amused huff of laughter as Furiosa turned back to the road.

 

“Boss! We’ve got incoming! Probably another minute—two tops!” Ace shouted.

 

Furiosa breathed in deeply and raised her voice; “Okay, everyone knuckle down! Keep heading toward the Bullet Farm! CHUM, I’M ON YOUR RIGHT!”

 

She locked the accelerator down and hit a switch on the dash, the engines roared and the War Rig lurched to the right, deeper into Buzzard territory.  

 

“What is she doing!” Max heard Dag screech. “Furiosa! What are you doing!”

 

“Just keep going!” Furiosa said, voice pulled tight on a grin.

 

‘What are you doing?’ Max typed quickly.

 

It took Furiosa a second to notice.

 

“NPC Buzzards are attracted to movement in their range. I can outrun them… SO…”

 

“So, you’re going to collect as many of the bastards as you can and run them right into the raiding party,” He snorted, shook his head, practically giggling as he typed; ‘Good plan. I like it.’

 

“Of course it’s a good plan. You think I haven’t thought about this before? Nobody likes to come out the Eastern gate because of the Buzzards. Well, this time, the Buzzards are going to be working for me!”

 

The rig swung close to the dunes, weaving in and out of the flatter areas.

 

“Come on. Come ON, where are you! You bastards, where are you?”

 

The rig cut hard around a corner, over a small crest between two dunes and Max heard the engines starting. Muffled rumbling noises.

 

“We’ve got four on the move!” Ace said. “Looks like two buggies and a spiker… And—Oh!” He chuckled; “We’ve got a buzz saw!”

 

Furiosa said nothing, but kept the rig on a winding course through the dunes. Serpentine patterns—Nearly ran right into a spiked out Volkswagen, but managed to outmaneuver it and the bug fell in behind them.

 

“Boss! Chum’s getting flack from the raiding parties! We’ve got to go!”

 

“How many Buzzards?”

 

“I’ve got six—“

 

“Two more! They’ve got flamers!”

 

Furiosa cut the wheel hard, ran the rig between two dunes and back the way they’d come, circumventing the pursuing Buzzards.

 

One of them raked close to the rig’s wheels and shots were exchanged. Max could hear the zing and twang of bullets against steel, plucked up the computer and carried it with him back into the kitchen to shut the door and lock it. Settled on a stool at the bar with a fresh cup of coffee.

 

“THUNDER UP!” Ace said with an audible sneer; “Raiding party left!”

 

Furiosa ran the rig from behind the dunes right into the middle of the raiding party—And the Buzzards followed.

 

“SHIT!” Someone shouted.

 

Gunshots, the roar of engines.

 

“WITNESS ME!”

 

“WITNESS!”

 

The music of the game was picking up, as if sensing what they were doing. Max could hear it even though the volume was low. Giggled when one of the buzz saw buzzard cars cut a lancing pair in half below the chest, chunks of animated humanity splattering all over the dirt.

 

The War Rig put on speed. Max saw flames from the exhaust pipes in the side mirror—Saw the car of War Boys speeding up on his side of the rig, the lancer ready to skewer him, and blew his head off without hesitation. The lance made an aborted arc and slammed into the ground in front of the car—exploded and made the whole car rock hard left and right. The driver’s health bar ticked down a few spaces.

 

Max shot him too.

 

He could see their patrol cars in the distance, growing larger with each passing second.

 

Behind them one of the pursuing raiders exploded. Another blew out a tire and dug in hard to the sand, spun out and rolled. Another quickly took its place.

 

“We’ve got harpoons and rakes coming up fast!” Ace said. “Lemon, see if you can snipe them off our tail.”

 

“On it!”

 

A Buzzard went air born.

 

Lemon took a few shots.

 

A War Boy screamed and his player cursed loudly into his microphone.

 

It was beautiful chaos and Max watched, fired off shots when he was able.

 

Nearly a third of the raiding party was overtaken by the Buzzards and another third was damaged by the subsequent pack of Buzzards that came out of the dunes at the commotion.

 

“Boss! The other’s reached the Point! Should they wait?”

 

“Yeah, tell them to scout ahead on foot for road traps until we get there, then hold back, I’m gonna plow it.”

 

“Will do!”

 

‘What happens at the half way point?’ Max typed and began checking his weapons.

 

“Another XP dump… Plus there are challenges… For the next quarter of the run there aren’t any Buzzards, but they’ve set up traps. You get a reward for every trap you identify and dismantle. Sometimes you find hidden guzz, grenades, or explosives, like if it was an exploding trap. Or you can salvage the metal materials. It’s slow going, but we can use that stuff to get the raiding parties off our backs.”

 

‘Could you go around it? Make the others think you’ve gone through?’

 

“That would be interesting, but no… Maybe we’ll get something like that in the update.”

 

The next ten minutes were a little boring. The Raiding party had been slowed down enough that only a few cars were within range of them, or could take shots at them, but those they’d left behind were beginning to catch up, and cars destroyed in the first leg of the run were beginning to appear over the horizon, their players having left the Citadel to return to the hunt.

 

Lemon snapped off another rake car.

 

The best thing they could do was to kill as many as possible and send them back. Max tried to be optimistic. His health was ticking up again, albeit slowly, but it was up enough that he felt he could move.

 

A glowing drop shape appeared above his head and he double clicked some of the Citadel water he had in his inventory. Chased it down with a few dried lizards, and on a whim some of the dried apple slices. Hadn’t Dag said fruit and vegetables made your health recover faster?

 

The sound of gunfire and explosions grew louder as the raiding party grew closer.

 

**[Your Convoy has reached the Halfway Point!]**

**+10 Experience**

**[Your Crew has completed Part Two of Four of the Run]**

**+10 Experience**

**[Your Crew made it Half-Way with 0 lost lives and 0 lost product.]**

**+10 Experience**

 

The rig shot past the patrol cars and Max saw Capable and Dag in their stolen Buzzard car speeding to catch up.

 

“Did you find any traps?” Furiosa said.

 

“Yeah, the Shiny girl found one, and Chum found another. What now?”

 

“Everyone stick close behind, I’m putting down the plow!”

 

There was a consensus of agreement and Furiosa’s character jerked hard on a lever attached to the side of her seat. The plow on the front of the rig dug hard into the earth with a lurch and a cloud of sand billowed up over the hood and windshield.

 

There were a few muted explosions and flashes of light as the plow took out bombs planted in the road. A range meter above Furiosa’s head was bouncing between two points in the middle. Max assumed she had to keep up a certain pattern of clicks or something to maintain the plow, like he had to do the same to maintain his aim when taking long distance shots.

 

“Does anybody have Eagle Eyes!” Furiosa said through gritted teeth.

 

“Beth does!” Lemon said loudly; “Bethie! Get up here!”

 

“See if you can scout out the traps, I can only use the plow so long in one run.”

 

“I’m on it!” The girl with the German accent, Beth, said and a moment later; “Plow up! CHAIN! CHAIN!”

 

The plow lifted, but it was too late.

 

Max heard a scream of metal and the rig lurched on the screen.

 

There were shouts of dismay from the crew and a loud rending SNAP! As the chain broke.

 

The rig swerved hard to the right, then the left, dodged around a pit opened in the middle of the road filled with jagged spiked teeth.

 

“SHIT!” A War Boy said and Max saw the silver lead car skim the edge of the pit, the others swerving out into the surrounding dessert to escape it.

 

The rig rumbled back into the road; “FILE IN!” Ace said urgently; “Get in close!”

 

“Anybody hurt?” Furiosa slowed the rig.

 

“SOUND OFF!” Ace called.

 

“Killfish!”

 

“TOSS!”

 

“Lemon and Beth are OK!”

 

“Tank!”

 

“BUZZ AND CHUM! REPORTING!”

 

_BOOM._

 

It happened without warning, no word from Beth saying there was a trap—Looking back, maybe it hadn’t been.

 

But the little red patrol car Max could see in his mirror lurched up at the back wheels, a billowing cloud of flame erupting from its middle.

 

The Rig shuddered from the collision as the car rolled.

 

“EYES ON! EYES ON!”

 

Four cars of War Boys swooped into view, went at the vulnerable patrol cars following the rig with lances and guns.

 

‘What do we do?’ Max typed quickly.

 

“Not much we can do,” Furiosa said. “Ace and the boys are trying to keep them off, but the only thing I can do is keep the rig on track and protect the engine. If the rig goes down we all die.”

 

‘What can I do?’

 

“Your health is still shit, you won’t make it far.”

 

“So, we just sit here and let them die?”

 

“Unless you’ve got grenades.”

 

Grenades.

 

He checked his inventory. ‘Lance tips, a pipe bomb, and a few grenades.’

 

“Then use them!”

 

Max shifted his character around, tried to ignore the downtick of health and dragged open the hatch on the rig’s roof. Stood in his seat and threw a lance tip at one of the raiders.

 

“BETH!” Lemon shrieked and Max turned, saw down the length of the rig that two War Boys had a girl in Scavenger garb held between them.

 

She was thrashing, trying to fight them off, but they were pulling her toward the edge of the rig, intent on throwing her into the rush of cars below them.

 

Max exchanged his grenade for his gun, fired three shots into the boy on Beth’s left. CLICK CLICK, empty.

 

“LEAVE HER ALONE!” Lemon lunged at the remaining War Boy with a knife and stabbed him in the gut, kicked and punched—but the War Boy kicked back, wrenched the knife free and twisted her arm. It broke with a snap and he yanked her close, set the blade against her throat and—

 

Lemon flashed black behind the sudden gush of blood and Beth snarled; “You miserable SHIT!”

 

An explosion rocked the back of the rig and both War Boys and Lemon’s body fell off into the road.

 

Beth snarled and picked up Lemon’s knife, tucked it into her boot; “They got Lemon!”

 

“GAZZER AND KILLFISH GOT BLOWED UP!” Echoed another female voice and a girl climbed atop the rig from the rear. She was shorter than most of the other characters, dark skinned with a pixie cut and wearing black and brown armor similar to that of a Rock Rider. “Boss, what do we do?”

 

“Is the tanker OK?” Furiosa said, her voice was tight.

 

“We’re leaking Mother’s milk, one of those lances damaged the spouts.”

 

“Can it be fixed?”

 

“Not while we’re still under fire!” When Max hovered his cursor over the girl her name became visible; Toast_the_Knowing. “I’ve got three Boys hurt, and Morsov’s missing.”

 

“He’s not dead. His icon’s still green,” Furiosa said, seemed surprised. “Did he fall off?”

 

“I got no clue… He was on a perch one of the Buzzsaws took off.”

 

“He fell off then,” Furiosa said. “See if you can whisper him, tell him to salvage one of those Buzzard Cars and meet us at the Farm.”

 

“On it,” Toast said and ducked into a blind with Beth.

 

“Everybody keep going! We’re almost to the Bullet Farm! They can’t touch us when we get to the boarder!”

 

Another explosion and a War Boy’s car flipped, cama apart at the seams and rolled across the sand like a meteorite.

 

“Dag look out!”

 

Gunfire. A cackle Max could hear echoing from next door. A supped up coupe chasing Capable’s car out ahead of the rig. Max saw a familiar War Boy on the back hefting a lance, aiming for Dag where she was crouched and bleeding in the lancer’s perch.

 

Shot gun.

 

He lunged into the back of the car and clicked open the door, and loomed out in the War Boy’s path, leveled the shotgun in Slit’s face and pulled the trigger barely five feet from him.

 

“HEY!”

 

Slit barely flinched, the shot flying wide, slicing the side of his face and eye, pelting his shoulder with small pockmarks. But the lance tipped up as Slit’s arm came forward, caught Max in the shoulder and exploded. Took off his arm and tore into his chest like tissue paper.

 

“SCAV!” Dag shrieked.

 

The screen went pale and his view of things was twisted as his character fell from the rig, hit the earth and tumbled under the whee—

 

He slammed his eyes shut and shoved the computer across the countertop. Sat there breathing heavily with a sick taste in the back of his throat. Breathed in and out quick and snapped the screen down.

 

He very suddenly didn’t like the game anymore. Didn’t want anything to do with it.

 

He stood and went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face and stared at the shake of his hands as they dripped into the bowl. Popped open the medicine chest and fumbled for one of the bottles.

 

It took him the better part of an hour to go back to the computer, by that time the medicine had kicked in and he was feeling less likely to fly apart. He propped the screen open and waited for the programs to restart.

 

The Game screen was dark for a while, a little white skull slowly filling with yellow like fuel.

 

Blackness.  

 

Max flexed his fingers on the keyboard. His character was somewhere dark and dank and when he tried to move he found his hands bound in front of him. Max was in a cage.

 

“Well, what have we here!”

 

There was a man standing over him, hunched forward.

 

He was a middle age man with a wild haircut and a cruel grin on his face. Max couldn’t tell if he was NPC, or if his player was just naturally that cruel.

 

“Look who came back! Last of the Rig Riders,” He chuckled, “Your friends have all gone, mate! Its just you and me.”

 

“Ain’t seen him before.”

 

“No,” The tubby man in the apron said, “He’s a scav, not a War Boy.”

 

“Ah, well… We don’t like Scavs crawling all over the Rig… Immortan Joe doen’t take kindly to Scavengers who try to claim what’s his.”

 

The Run. Had they finished? Had Dag and Capable made it through alright?

 

“What’s his stats?” A thin young man came into view. He was wearing thick goggles and a long apron like the tubby one, had a thick gnarled scar slanting back from his forehead to the nape of his neck, there were staples in it, likely holding the cleaved halves of his skull together.

 

The tubby man’s player hummed; “He’s not NPC… But he don’t have a name—What’s your username?”

 

Max said nothing.

 

“You got a mic or not?”

                                                                

Nothing.

 

“It’s a fucking glitch,” The thinner man said. Max hovered his mouse over him and saw the character’s name was ‘Shiv3r’, the fat man’s name was ‘Rusty_Needles’.

 

Needles. Buzz had said something about a creepo named Needles.

 

“Eh,” Needles snorted; “Full Glitch… We can work with that. Help me get him on the rack! Might we can use that Glitch in our favor, Shiv.”

 

Rack.

 

**Stay.**

**Escape.**

 

He hits escape and starts fighting.

 

He thrashes and kicks and bites and checks his inventory for weapons but everything is GONE. He snarls and punches and breaks Shiv’s nose, splits Needles’ stupid smug mouth and almost makes it out into the hallway but Shiv tackles him and suddenly there are War Boys on him, pinning him to the ground.

 

They hit and kick and stomp him until he stops fighting, then heft him up and drag him into a small dark room, tie him face down onto what looks like an operating table and Needles comes into the room.

 

“Not so tough are you now, Glitch. This is my domain, and nothing gets out unless I say it does,” He stands there in front of Max’s character and he can hear the player breathing, it’s a heavy wet sound against his microphone; “Now, if you wanna make it outta here, you’re gonna do exactly what I say.”

 

Max contemplated simply signing off, reappearing out in the cage in the main room and trying to make a break for it, but Needles was moving again, running some kinds of tests on his character.

 

“You’re the scav what was running around Bartertown with those girls…” He finds the wound on Max’s knee; “Pity they didn’t come through here or we may be having a little more fun right now.”

 

Needles does something, Max isn’t sure what it is, but a status bar appears above his head and his hands move quickly over Max’s character’s back, a moment later his clothes are gone. Max blinks, startled as his own stats appear hovering over his head.

 

“What’s this?” Needles clicks something, makes a frustrated sound and clicks again. “Just a walking glitch you are. Be better off purging and starting again.”

 

Max is bored already and tries to thrash out of his restraints, gets a hard punch to his injured knee for his troubles.

 

“Should geld you, but I think this is more fitting, considering the trouble you and that Imperator of yours caused,” Needles turns and collects something off a shaded table in the corner, approaches and lays a saw against the back of Max’s character’s thigh. “Let’s see you try to run with only one leg!”

 

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	10. Blood Shed Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's so short this time. Real Life SUCKS and I got tied up in Skills lab.

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“Should geld you, but I think this is more fitting, considering the trouble you and that Imperator of yours caused,” Needles turns and collects something off a shaded table in the corner, approaches and lays a saw against the back of Max’s character’s thigh. “Let’s see you try to run with only one leg!”

 

“Nope!” Max tapped the escape key and logged out. Sat there for a moment thinking and wondered how much of a delay there was between his computer and the servers. How long would his character lay there at Needles’ mercy before it realized he wasn’t there anymore.

 

“Shit…” He waited ten minutes then logged back on, found himself back in the cage from earlier. His leg didn’t seem any worse for wear.

 

“Right… Escape… Gotcha.”

 

“Oi! Needles, look, he’s back!” Shiv3r said with a nasal sounding giggle. “He thinks he can get away if he reboots!”

 

Needles came over and even though there was no possible way for it to be so, Max thought his character looked disgruntled.

 

“Rebooting won’t do nothin’ for ya, mate,” He went for the cage door and Max lunged. Kicked—Wriggled free and ran for the door.

 

The War Boys rushed but this time Max was semi-prepared and kicked free of the first two, wrapped his chained arms around one War Boy’s neck and bashed their brows together. Headbutting, always good.

 

He almost made it to the door, but a War Boy with a black brow jabbed him in the lower belly with a cattle prod and Max’s character went down. He couldn’t really get up, but he could thrash. Thrashed around until two War Boys peeled off of him and something appeared on his screen.

 

**[You’ve adapted a new ability! Why not give it a try?]**

**Raging Feral**

**(R and F pressed at once)**

 

Max snorted, gave it a try because, well, why the hell not—And the little man on the screen snarled and started fighting tooth and nail. A combination of moves including eye gouges and a rather savage bite.

 

“Not bad.”

 

He tore a War Boy’s ear off, grinned when the character screamed and lurched toward the door.

 

A timer appeared above his head.

**[You have 30 seconds to make it to the end of the corridor.]**

 

He ran, heard the War Boys chasing him. The Corridor was a gentle downward slope with a fork at the far end. He made it to the intersection before the War Boys caught him. Could see left and right down the length of the tunnel, a glowing green arrow pointing downward toward steps on the left.

 

Well, at least he knew where to go now.

 

Needles wasn’t happy. Took the cattle prod to him again and decided that pulling his teeth was a good idea.

 

Max exited the game. Waited twenty minutes—long enough to make a sandwich and check his email—tried again.

 

He made it almost to the arrow the second time. Halfway down the stairs the third, and Needles only managed to break two of his fingers.

 

The fat organic was getting angry now. Decided to leave him in the cage and jab him in the crotch with the prod until he died of a heart attack and respawned outside the cage.

 

Max decided not to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak, and took it for a blessing.

 

He made it down the stairs and to the end of the corridor where there was a spinning green skull, on the fourth try, burst out and flew off into oblivion and died after a two-hundred foot fall. He thought, maybe that it would count as escape, but he respawned beside the cage in Needles’ blood shed. Fought his way to the intersection and ran to the right, up a ramp… right into a group of players and NPC’s in a chop shop. He took a wrench to the back of the head and respawned back in the blood shed.

 

“Piece of—“ He snarled and hunched over the keyboard, tapped keys a little harder than he should. “What am I supposed to do? This is impossible! I either fall to my death or run in circles!”

 

He went back to the chop shop, ran completely around it, hid under a car for a while, but there was no exit. Someone shot him this time and back in the blood shed Needles was cackling. Didn’t even try to stop him.

 

“I don’t know what’s better! The fact you can’t figure it out, or that you keep trying the same shit hoping for a different outcome!”

 

Max attacked him.

 

Fought until someone shot him, then grinned to himself when he saw Needles had a bloody tear at the corner of his mouth now, fought his way back into the hallway and turned left again.

 

Maybe he was missing something. Maybe there was an exit somewhere along the path.

 

There was a ventilation shaft, but he couldn’t get into it, the hole between the pipes coming out of the wall was too small for his character to fit in. He got stuck and dragged back to Needles.

 

Needles dislocated his shoulder as payment.

 

Max didn’t get logged out in time to avoid it and when he respawned his shoulder was glowing the color of earwax and every time he moved a little too roughly his health ticked down. He fought his way out again and made it to the doorway in the cliff face, stood there staring out and down at the horizon. The group of wretched at the base of the butte, heard the War Boys rushing up behind him—And a crane hook floated past.

 

The War Boys collided with him—knocked him and two of their own off into dead air. They hit the ground and practically exploded, bones crushed, insides liquefying.

 

But Max had seen it.

 

The Crane hook.

 

His hands were chained together.

 

He respawned back in the bloodshed, shoulder still out of socket, and made for the door.

 

He missed the first time he jumped, splattered himself on top of a group of wretched, the second time he jumped too far and brained himself against the hook, didn’t even get to see his body splatter on the ground—The third time he managed it, caught the hook and held on while it swayed back and forth dangerously. Kicked at War Boys and was dragged back—Flailed until he and three of the NPC’s fell.

 

The forth time—The fourth time he made it. Hooked the chain on the hook and aimed not for the War Boy’s hands, but their faces. Kicked the doors shut and tried to keep himself balanced as the crane hook moved up and around the side of the butte.

 

Okay. Okay, he could do this.

 

He rode the hook over various conveyer belts and rickety looking catwalks, thought maybe he could drop onto one and move into the next tower, but had no idea how to unhook his chains from the crane unless he swung himself dangerously, and the idea that he would respawn back in the blood shed wasn’t by any means appealing.

 

The crane lifted him onto the top of the butte, swung him directly onto a loading platform and he was chased by more War Boys. Shot at—Watched his health tick down when a bullet caught his dislocated arm, tore a bloody groove across his bicep.

 

He could hear the War Boys looking for him, crouched and tried to hide himself and his status bars below the canopy of maize plants. Crouched low and hoped that if he died he’d respawn here, not back in the blood shed.

 

He pulled back and looked down at himself, hidden in the corn, and the War Boys searching. Took a chance when there were none in range and darted back to the loading dock, stole a length of fabric off a drying line and tied it around his arm, made a shitty approximation of a sling for his shoulder and hid himself in a one-ton container of leafy greens. Pulled bits over himself until he would only be seen if someone swept their cursor over him.

 

He had to be careful. One more murder, one more bullet to the head, or death caused by another player, and he’d be locked out for 24 hours. And then respawn back in the blood shed. He still hadn’t seen the ‘you’ve escaped’ message like he had when he’d escaped Dag.

 

Dag… Capable—Had they made it out OK? It had been hours!

 

That gray drop appeared above his head again.

 

Great.

 

GREAT!

 

He scoured his tool bar, but he had no water. Had nothing. His entire Inventory was empty. He double clicked in the text pain and on a whim typed’ [whisper: Furiosa]

 

He had no idea how the whisper function worked.

 

It didn’t work. He tried again (whisper: Furiosa)

 

Nothing.

 

“Fuck—“ He held down the control button and typed ‘whisper: Furiosa’.

 

And a little gray box appeared in the upper corner of his screen. He slumped back into his seat in relief, rubbed tiredly at his brow.

 

The image pulsed darker and lighter, darker and lighter. It took almost ten minutes before her character’s image appeared.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Uhm… I’m very likely stuck.”

 

She was quiet. Max could hear music in the background. “Scav?”

 

“Mhm… I’m hiding in a crate of spinach.”

 

She snorted, laughed. “You mean you still haven’t escaped! The girls have been looking for you for hours and you still haven’t escaped!”

 

“’s not funny—“

 

She settled herself, still giggling quietly. “Okay, okay… Which tower are you on?”

 

Max pulled back and scanned the area. “The big one that’s not got a skull on it.”

 

“You haven’t even made it off the garage tower!” She took a shaking breath; “Okay, okay, hang on.”

 

War Boys appeared on Max’s screen, as well as the crane hook— “They’re hooking the box onto the crane now.”

 

“Uh—“ Furiosa clicked a few things, “Okay, you’re probably going into a trade rig. Just hang tight…” She paused; “No pun intended.”

 

Max grunted, watched as the crane lifted the pallet high into the air and swung it over the edge of the cliff, slowly started lowering it.

 

Trade rig. Wonderful.

 

What did that even mean!

 

It didn’t take too very long to make it down the side of the butte, the crane stopped and a set of doors in the side of the cliff swung open a War Boy with a forklift catching the crate Max was in and lifting it free of the metal pallet. He backed quickly down the corridor—Max could hear guitar music in the background, contemplated lunging free of the spinach and making a break for the stairs.

 

“Where are you now, Scav?”

 

“Tunnel. On a fork lift.”

 

“Okay… I don’t know the Imperator whose running the trade rig. You’re gonna have to get out of there when you hit the garage.”

 

“Hmm.”

 

“You know what the War Rig looks like, right?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Go hide in it! I’ll meet you there.”

 

“’won’t get caught?”

 

“Not if you’re quick about it… I’ll cause a diversion.”

 

“What?”

 

“Just, as soon as you hit the garage, make a break for the War Rig.”

 

He whined, but got his fingers poised over the keys.

 

The fork lift backed into an open space and pulled a tight one-eighty, hurled forward around War Boys and pups and cars—Rigs of all shapes and sizes.

 

Max saw the War Rig, in passing. Secluded off in a side chamber by itself.

 

And something in the far right corner of the garage exploded.

 

The fork lift jerked hard and rammed into a wall, the crate Max was in upended and spilled spinach everywhere.

 

Max rolled to his feet and started running. Rammed into a few War Boys running in the direction of the explosion. He heard their chatter as background noise. Someone was screaming excitedly, characters were chanting ‘WITNESSED!’

 

Max lunged into the room with the War Rig and tripped over his own feet, his wound and bad knee making maneuvering a little too tedious. He crawled under the rig and went still. Left his character lying there on his stomach watching his health bar tick.

 

“Are you safe?” Furiosa’s voice over the Whisper. “Scav, are you OK?”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Are you with the rig?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Okay, I’m on my way.”

 

“Need an Organic.”

 

“Are you hurt?”

 

“Arm’s busted.”

 

“Tosser had to log off. I don’t know anybody else.”

 

He grunted, saw her boots appear in the doorway.

 

“Where are you?”

 

“Under.”

 

“Under—You’re under the rig?” She circled the rig and dropped into a crouch by the driver’s door, bent forward to look at him. “What are you doing under there!”

 

He hummed, wouldn’t admit he’d fallen and been unable to get back up.

 

“Can you get out?”

 

He wriggled around to her side and eased out, leaned back against one wheel.

 

“We need to get those chains off,” Furiosa climbed to her feet and went to one of the large shelving units stacked with tools in the corner, took down a pair of bolt cutters and returned, snipped through the locks on each cuff.

 

A timer appeared above his head; [You have five minutes to make it out of the Citadel undetected. Be careful, War Boys are watching.]

 

“Okay,” Furiosa pushed herself to her feet. “I can’t technically help you escape… But there are stairs in a hidden passage way at the back of the room here, Toast’ll meet you on level three and point you in the right direction. Dag and Capable are circling with a car, they’ll pick you up.”

 

“Okay…”

 

Furiosa stood and started to walk away.

 

“Thank you.”

 

He heard a strange hitch in her voice, like uncertain amusement, or appreciation; “You’re welcome.”

 

And the Whisper ended.

 

The secret passage was tiny. Max had to hunch and brace himself up against the pipe works as he moved. It was a gradual slope that worked its way in strange angular patterns downward. Max almost felt lost until a figure moved in the darkness at the end of the passageway.

 

“Scav?”

 

It was a girl. The same one from the rig in the leather armor.

 

‘Toast?’ He typed.

 

“Okay, be quick! Follow me!” She moved toward him, hooked his uninjured arm over her shoulders and practically dragged him along.

 

Her character was short, reminded Max oddly of a Halfling from his university days playing Dungeons and Dragons with J— with friends.

 

“The Boss said you were hurt, how bad is it?”

 

‘tis’ but a flesh wound.’

 

Toast snorted. “Did you just Monty Python me?”

 

‘I’m impressed that you know what Monty Python is.’

 

“I have a television, you know.”

 

The passageway narrowed and Toast ducked from under his arm and slithered through, “Come on! If you can’t make it through we’ve gotta go back.”

 

He forced himself through, came out mostly unscathed.

 

“Okay, the way out is just ahead… They should be waiting… Stay away from the Wretched! Last thing you need is to be infected with Wretch!”

 

Max limped forward past her, saw the sliver of a crack he was expected to crawl through and wrinkled his nose. Of course.

 

“Good luck, Scav!” Toast disappeared back up the corridor.

 

Max could barely squeeze through the hole.

 

“COME ON!”

 

“SCAV HURRY UP!”

 

He poked his head through the hole and nearly came face to face with a Wretched man with bulging bloodshot eyes and a foaming mouth.

 

Max lurched back into the hole and kicked at any head or arm or hand that tried to get through, covered his head when bullets rang and pinged against the rock.

 

“SCAV NOW!”

 

He shook his head and shoved through the hole, shambled a run toward the car and lunged onto the gunner’s perch at Dag’s feet.

 

The car leapt forward, thumped and banged over some of the wretched.

 

**Escape Success!**

**You’ve Successfully Escaped the Citadel!**

**+20 XP**

 

Dag punched him hard in his wounded arm; “Took you long enough!”

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0


	11. Battle Boy

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

Capable liked death metal.

 

Or, she and Dag liked death metal, so she played it loudly enough to be heard through the game. They didn’t sing with the music like they had earlier, but they played it just as loudly, and seemed just as excited about it.

 

‘Do you have anything not quite as—‘ He paused, trying to find the word; ‘—indecipherable?’

 

“Eh?” Dag said, “Oh—I dunno. Got any music not so likely to scare the scav?”

 

“Like what?” Capable clicked something and the music stopped; “I’ve got loads of music. What do you like?”

 

He scrubbed his nails over his chin. ‘I don’t really listen to it much.’

 

Dag snorted; “Ah, he’s old and belligerent and doesn’t like our devil music.”

 

Capable snorted; “Poor lamb.”

 

‘The last music I really paid attention to was before you were born.’

 

“Ooo, he likes country western!”

 

‘What? No,’ He shook his head.

 

“What was that band Furiosa was telling you about?” Dag said conversationally. “The one who wrote the church song.”

 

“Oh, him! I don’t have that one. I’m going to have to buy it if I can find it. It sounds amazing!”

 

She settled on something else loud, but at least this one had lyrics Max could understand.

 

Dag apparently knew the lyrics to this one as well, laughed, and started singing loudly with a convincing accent. “Ain’t no hollaback girrrrl! Ain’t no hollaback girrrrl.”

 

Capable drove in a winding, circuitous path back to Dag’s cave while they sang. Max tried to ignore them, but by the third repetition of the song had it lodged deeply into his head.

 

When the cave came into view Max was startled to see another car was already waiting… And it wasn’t his.

 

The character was bent under the hood, tall and thin with long light colored hair and low slung trousers and vest with a gray under tunic.

 

“We’re back!” Capable turned the music down a little; “Where’d Cheedo go?”

 

“She’s eating lunch with her aunt,” The young woman spoke. “Said she’d be back in an hour… Been about thirty-five minutes.”

 

“Okay. We can reload our salvage and swing past Bartertown while we wait.”

 

“Don’t forget the scav’s car,” Dag jumped down and disappeared into her cave.

 

Max hovered his cursor over the new girl. Angharad_Jones91, Novice Organic Mechanic, Novice Blackthumb, Novice Revhead.

 

“Who’s the man?” Angharad said, her character had finished whatever she was doing under the car’s hood and closed it, walked closer and stood gently swaying near the front fender of her car.

 

“We call him Scav… He’s a glitch, doesn’t have a user name, or a mic. But, apparently he is a man. Furiosa talked to him,” Capable said evenly.

 

“She actually TALKED TO HIM!” Dag said in surprise. “She didn’t tell me she talked to him!”

 

Max snorted.

 

“Yeah, he’s the one who got blown up before we made it to the Farm.”

 

Angharad made humming noise. “That was spectacular by the way. Blew half your head off!”

 

Max didn’t really want to talk about it. Typed quickly. ‘You’re an Organic?”

 

“Oh, yeah… Just leveled it up. Are you hurt?” She moved her character closer and her hands moved around him. “Bullet went right through your arm. It says the wound looks clean, but I’m going to disinfect it anyway.”

 

“Maybe I should build a still,” Dag said exiting her cave. “I can level up now… Maybe I can brew alcohol.”

 

“That’d be great!” Angharad said, finishing what she was doing to Max’s character, re-bandaging his arm and fixing a proper sling. “If you can make better than ninety proof you can sell it as antiseptic too.”

 

“I wonder if you can make meth in the game.”

 

Max choked; ‘Do you forget that I’m a policeman?’

 

“It’s just in the game. You can’t arrest someone for making fake drugs in a fake world.”

 

“You’re a policeman?” Angharad sounded surprised. “From where?”

 

‘Australia.’

 

“Everyone’s from Australia,” Angharad chuckled.

 

“It’s the time zones… You’re just on when we are… I got on once in the middle of the night and there were all these Americans and Germans on. It was scary! I heard one of them’s got a nuke and he’s going to try and over throw Joe.”

 

“I doubt that,” Dag said with an audible sneer; “I think Joe’s one of the creators… Like, he, the People Eater and Kalashnikov are the three arseholes who created the game and they get their jollies being giant—“

 

“No, because the creators all said they don’t play yet. They’re waiting until the update.”

 

“And of course, men don’t lie.”

 

“Scav hasn’t,” Capable said swinging herself onto the lancer’s perch beside him. “He’s reliable.”

 

“So far,” Dag said, but didn’t argue.

 

‘No, she’s right. Men lie.’

 

“Even you?”

 

‘On occasion.’

 

“See, I told you he’s a woman!”

 

“Furiosa said he’s a he!”

 

Max rolled his eyes; ‘Everybody lies on occasion.’

 

“Oh, boo!” Capable sighed loudly; “Not EVERYBODY lies… Just most people.”

 

“Most people can fuck off,” Dag said and started kicking the sand in front of her cave. She found something, hummed excitedly and salvaged her car back to herself. “Come on, Scav, let’s go!”

 

‘My inventory is empty.’

 

“Oh! That’s right! He died!” Capable said urgently; “We need to get him to his car fast before someone finds it!”

 

“I’ll wait here for Cheedo,” Angharad said, “You’ll be back?”

 

“Of course!” Dag said and climbed into the lancer’s perch at Max’s side. “Just don’t try to go into the cave… It’s rigged.”

 

“Gotcha!” Angharad said and started kicking the sand. “Have fun, good luck!”

 

It didn’t take very long to get to his car, though it seemed longer because now Capable and Dag had discovered their mutual love for female rap artists. There was only so many times he could stand hearing each song played before he got a headache.

 

Max was more than relieved to see that it was still there and seemingly untouched.

 

The drive to Bartertown was surprisingly uneventful. But Bartertown itself, well…

 

They’d no sooner pulled up than there was a flurry of noise and; “It’s that redhead again!”

 

Max had time to turn and the War Boy was on him—

 

“Get’em! GET HER! I’ve got this smeg!”

 

Max tapped R and F quickly, and thrashed the War Boy off, climbed to his feet and reached for one of the guns he’d hidden in his car.

 

“STOP IT!” Capable practically screamed; “WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

 

Dag was snarling, a foamy pith of curses and shrieks dripping from her voice; “YOU GET AWAY FROM HER!”

 

“Slit! Look out! She’s Shiny!”

 

Max lunged out of the car, gun in hand and didn’t even think. Aimed and shot the boy holding Capable to the sand in the shoulder, the next got half his foot blown off, and Slit took a bullet through his right wrist.

 

“You FILTH! You—“ Max could hear him through the wall. A snarl and a crash, and the next moment the sharp thud of his heels across his kitchen.

 

Max lurched to his feet and made it to his kitchen door just as Slit landed on the deck and grabbed the sliding door’s latch. They fought over it for a moment, but the door opened to the left and Max’s feet slid across the lino and the next moment he was on his back in the kitchen floor and Slit was literally on top of him, hands tangled in his t-shirt—shaking him.

 

“You blinded me! You—You took out my EYE! And my hand! And you’re allied with those twats! Don’t you understand what they’re trying to do!”

 

Max didn’t think, twisted, swung up a leg and the next moment had Slit’s arm twisted back on his shoulder, fingers bent back on his wrist, knee heavy on his lumbar. “YOU DO NOT ATTACK AN OFFICER IN HIS OWN HOME! LEAST OF ALL NOT OVER A FUCKING VIDEO GAME!”

 

Slit whined and writhed; “Ow! OWOWOWOW! I give! I GIVE!”

 

Max let him go, shoved him away with his feet and sat there staring at him with his lips pulled back over his teeth; “I could arrest you, you stupid shit!”

 

Slit rocked up and sat spread out like a child having a tantrum, cradling his strained fingers. “I thought we were friends!”

 

“What reason do you have to keep bothering those girls? Give me one good reason!”

 

Slit rolled his lips back from his teeth; “They’re ruining it! They come in and complain about the violence, complain to the mods that they get killed, or about how there aren’t enough female imperators—it’s ‘cause it’s hard! It’s hard and not many girls want to bother with it! And they don’t wanna play by the rules if they do! They wanna get free passes in everything just ‘cause they’re girls! They want us to give ‘em shit when they aren’t working for it! They don’t deserve it! They don’t deserve to play if they’re jus’ gonna be cunts about it!”

 

Max snarled and threw a shoe at him. One of the nasty old gray ones he used to go running in. Struggled to his feet with the other in hand. Slit was already on his feet, scrambling up over the fence. Max growled loudly—almost a roar and launched the second shoe at the boy’s behind, it bounced off and landed with a thud on the deck.

 

He heard Slit’s feet on the other side of the fence, the heave of his breath from the entrance to his own kitchen.

 

“You’re mad!” The kid shouted; “You’re mad, Max! Absolutely stark RAVING!” And he slammed the sliding door to his kitchen.

 

Max could have spit on him. Paced back and forth from his door to the fence fuming and snorting. Felt oddly enough like Jim’s old pug about six months before it had finally kicked it. The damned thing had been vicious with its mouthful of shark like crooked teeth, growling and snarling and snorting with anger at anybody who got near it but Jim.

 

Max gave one last frustrated shake of his head and a loud snort and shut his door, stomped back to his computer and found Capable and Dag standing close to one another by the fender of his car.

 

One of the War Boys was still there, standing a few feet away, and in the distance Max could hear Slit ranting to his friends quietly. He aimed his gun at the War Boy and typed a little more violently than he’d intended;  ‘go away.’

 

“Oh—“ Capable’s voice was hushed; “It—it’s OK. He’s fine… He—he chased the others off when you—while you were busy with Slit… They tried to take your car. He and Dag stopped them.”

 

“Uhm…” The War Boy cleared his throat; “I… Hi?”

 

Max put his gun away, still fuming, and limped pathetically back to his car, stood his character there beside it while he rubbed his face tiredly. He tried to tell himself this game was too much trouble. Too much stupidity and he should just quit. Just delete his account and go on his way. No sense in continuing if it was just going to make living next to the kid unbearable.

 

“So, uhm… Slit seems to be a fan of yours… As in not at all,” Capable said quietly.

 

‘Slit can bite my ass,’ He regretted it as soon as he typed it. ‘Sorry.’

 

And then a sense of cold dread settled over him. ‘You heard that?’

 

“He has a wireless headset,” The War Boy said. “Been bragging about it all day…”

 

Max pushed his computer across the length of the sofa and rubbed the back of his neck. Well, at least he didn’t have to worry about going to the kid’s party tonight. So, that was a plus.

 

Then again, the kid may just make the party that much louder to piss him off because of this.

 

“Fuck this day,” Max rubbed his brow. “Should have stayed in bed.”

 

“Are you OK, Scav?” Dag sounded so much quieter than he was used to.

 

He considered not answering, just shutting the computer down and forgetting about the stupid game, and the stupid kid next door and the fact that the girls couldn’t even enjoy one day without being chased and yelled at and hunted down in the game.

 

“Fuck,” He hefted a sigh and dragged his computer closer, stared at the screen a moment and typed; ‘Yeah.’

 

“Should we wait until they’ve gone before we go see the scrap dealers?”

 

“No… If he comes near us again actin’ like that I’ll shoot him in the other hand,” The War Boy said. “s’ not right what he said. You girls got every right to play ‘s we do… If that’s the way he thinks he can drive himself from now on.”

 

“Weren’t you trying to kill us earlier yourself?” Dag spat.

 

“Well, yeah… That’s part of the War Rig Run, inn’it?”

 

“No.”

 

“No? I thought that was part of the fun. Try to run ‘em down an… You mean it’s not?”

 

“No… It actually hurts the Citadel when you do that,” Capable said.

 

“War Boys don’t have to pay for their guzz or bullets, you get them from the armory, right?” Dag still sounded testy. “How do you think the Citadel gets those things?”

 

“You don’t get as many bullets or units of guzz, and the produce gets damaged,” Capable put in.

 

The boy was quiet; “I didn’t think of it that way… ‘s like a big trade run then?”

 

“Pretty much.”

 

“Well, shit,” The boy cleared his throat again; “Why’s everyone tryin’ to run it down then! An’ why we only do it once a week? Like, we only get a hundred bullets a game week, and a hundred units of guzz, unless we scavenge for it… And that’s only if we get a wheel!”

 

“You mean you don’t have your own cars?”

 

“Oh, you can scavenge them, but you only get free guzz if you’ve got one of the Citadel’s cars—“ He sighed, “Look, see?” He salvaged his car to himself and showed them. It was a big nineteen-thirties Chevy with an exposed engine and a porcupine arch of lances across the back and front. “It’s not mine… But I drive it… The Immortan Joe owns everything… That’s why it, and anyone on it when it crashes, goes right back to the Citadel.”

 

“That’s weird,” Capable shook her head.

 

“Not really… s’why when someone takes some of the stuff from my cave, it just comes back once they’ve discarded it.”

 

“You’ve got a cave?” The War Boy sounds excited. “How’d you manage that!”

 

“Found it fist… Claimed it as mine.”

 

“There’s still places on the map people haven’t gone?” Capable turned to the other girl. “I thought the whole world had been discovered already!”

 

“Oh, no!” Dag said eagerly; “Still lots of places in the mountains, and down in the canyons! People stay where the towns and cities are.”

 

“We should go looking for undiscovered places, now we can level up!” Capable sounded excited. “We should get Angharad and Cheedo and go looking for undiscovered places! We could make our own city!”

 

“Can I come too?” The War Boy said.

 

“We’ll have to ask the others,” Dag snuffed empirically. “We’re a crew.”

 

“Fair enough,” The War Boy kicked the sand a little.

 

“Come on, Scav. We need to hurry. Angharad and Cheedo are waiting.”

 

Max limped after them.

 

“You can come too if you want, War Boy,” Capable said, “Just to make sure Slit doesn’t try to attack us again.”

 

Max could hear the grin in her voice and rolled his eyes.

 

“Nux,” He said jogging to catch up to them. “I’m Nux.”

 

Salvaging all their scrap turned out to be quite lucrative. Max traded for some steel scrap and food. ‘Dag, do you still have blueprint paper?’

 

“Did you lose the last one when you died?”

 

‘Unfortunately.’

 

She snorted, rummaged through her belt pouch and tossed something to his feet.

 

Max spread the paper out on a table set near where an NPC was selling long pork, and clicked through his menus making a duplicate of the sketch he’d done before.

 

“What’re you designing?” Nux said.

 

“He needs a leg brace.”

 

“Ah. Those are tricky.”

 

Max finished with his sketch and limped off to the blacksmith.

 

The kid was less than pleased to see him; “You again?” He sighed heavily; “Did you bring a design?

 

Max brandished the blueprint.

 

The kid took it and stretched it out; “What is this, a joke?”

 

‘No.’

 

“This is horse-shit! You need a MASTER blackthumb, not some novice,” He rolled the blueprint back up and practically threw it at Max. “Act like you have some common sense.”

 

Max wanted to shoot the kid, but restrained himself. Picked up his blueprint and limped back to the tables where he’d left the girls and Nux.

 

“No luck?” Capable said sadly, her character was munching at what looked like an ear of corn.

 

‘Not good enough.’

 

“Let me look at it,” Nux shifted his character closer and Max handed over the paper. “Oh—uh… Yeah, you’re not  gonna get anything done with this… You want me to draw it out?”

 

“You’re a blackthumb?” Capable had finished her corn and her character was chugging down some water.

 

“Yeah.”

 

‘I’d appreciate it, yes.’

 

Nux spread the paper out and bent over it, animated hands hovering with a pen at the ready; “What kind of leg brace do you want? Full or partial?”

 

‘Got shot through the knee.’

 

“Ouch… Okay, definitely knee then… Were the nerves in your foot and ankle affected?”

 

‘Don’t know.’

 

“Best to be safe than sorry. I’ll draw it out for a full one, if it’s too much I can modify it once it’s built,” His hands blurred over the page, status bar ticking down earwax yellow above his head. Once the bar was full he handed the paper back. “Want I should go with you to see the smith? Danny’s a hardass.”

 

“Oh! I wanna see!” Capable and Dag followed them.

 

Danny the blacksmith seemed less of a dick with Nux there, he spoke helpfully, took the design and worked quickly with some of the steel and leather Max supplied from his salvage.

 

He worked quickly, the status bar above his head sparked like a welding torch. Max thought the effect was amusing.

 

“Hey, come by the Citadel next time and look me up… I’ve got some car scrap I’ll trade you,” Nux said evenly, and the boy’s voice grew high and excited.

 

“Thanks!”

 

The brace was bigger than Max had anticipated, not necessarily bulky, but it encompassed his leg from ankle to mid-thigh with a joint at the knee. Hitched under his boot and fastened at the top of his foot, mid-calf, above and below his knee, and at the thigh. It added a little metallic CLICK noise with every step he took, but the limp was gone and the little divot in his health bar disappeared.

 

“Oh, very nice, dear,” Capable said in a faux nasal accent. “Give us a twirl!”

 

“Very nice, brava,” Dag echoed, clapped quickly and daintily.

 

Capable joined her clapping and they both dissolved into giggles.

 

Cheedo was back when they returned to the cave, heavy one War Boy.

 

She and Angharad were kicking around in the sand near Dag’s cave, and there was a motorbike near Angharad’s car with a bristle of lances on it. They come running when—Max supposes it’s a Salvage Party now, rolls to a stop by the cave.

 

“Hey, who’s the War Boy? Did you capture him?” Cheedo sounded excited.

 

“No, he’s nice… Come over here and talk private!” Capable’s character was bouncing up and down, squat to stand, squat to stand, like a little dance. 

 

The girls huddled together, Max assumed they were Whispering and turned to shuffle away and kick sand when a little box appeared at the top right corner of his screen;

 

{You’ve been invited into a Crew Whisper}

Accept.

Decline.

 

He rolled his eyes and hit accept.

 

“Oh! OH! He accepted!”

 

“SHH! Everybody SHUSH!”

 

Someone giggled excitedly.

 

Max sighed and propped his chin on his fist; “What?”

 

And in unison they all spoke, giggles and amusement and young feminine glee; “Hellooo, Max!”

 

He made a low noise in his throat, like a groan.

 

“I didn’t believe her! I didn’t believe she’d really talked to you!”

 

“Oh, he sounds kind of old!”

 

“Cheedo!”

 

“Well, he does!”

 

“What happened with Slit?”

 

“Did you hit him? I would have hit him!”

 

A giggle, Max thought it was Dag; “Did he cry?”

 

“What?” Max rolled his eyes; “He didn’t cry—he’s just—“ A whine; “Some annoying kid.”

 

“He cried,” Capable was grinning, he could hear it. “He was crying when you came back, it was fantastic!”

 

“You girls are kind of vindictive,” Max muttered and reached for his water glass.

 

“That guy’s been hunting me down every day for MONTHS!” Capable said urgently; “And you finally made him stop! You and Nux made him stop!”

 

“’no business doing that anyway. S’ a game,” He sighed, “Look, don’t go blabbing my name everywhere.”

 

“Why?”

 

“He’s a cop, stupid. Probably on here looking for pedophiles.”

 

“He should meet Joe—“

 

“Or the People Eater.”

 

“What about the bullet farmer?”

 

“He’s not bad, just a cranky old man.”

 

“I heard him and Joe got a thing together.”

 

“What thing?”

 

“Like they’re TOGETHER.”

 

“You’re kidding!”

 

“No.”

 

“I don’t believe it—“

 

“Still think Joe’s a twelve-year-old.”

 

“Uhm… Can I go?” Max scratched his neck again.

 

“OH! Why! We can talk to you like this!”

 

“Maybe he doesn’t want to talk to us because we’re girls—“

 

Dag laughed loud and shrill; “Maybe he makes weird noises while he plays! Like my mum does when she’s got ‘company’.”

 

One of them, he wasn’t sure who, though he thought it may be Dag again, started making loud shrill grunting noises and the others cackled.

 

Max shook his head. “Try to keep it age appropriate, thank you!”

 

They laughed.

 

0-0-0

 

“You alright there, Rockatansky?“

 

Max rubbed his forehead and turned to look at Morsov across the desk.

 

Morsov had a stupid grin on his stupid face. “Didn't know you were a Gwen Stefani fan.”

 

Max blinked rapidly; “What?”

 

“You've been humming for an hour now,” Morsov looked as if he were barely containing laughter.

 

“Have not.”

 

Morsov lifted his hands innocently.

 

Max rolled his eyes and turned back to his computer, typing carefully with his eyes narrowed at the screen.

 

It was quiet for a ten count, then the lyrics in Max's head made another round and he felt himself humming, felt his lips moving just as Morsov snorted loudly and hunched over his desk giggling.

 

“Oh, you can just fuck right off!” Max threw a pencil at him.

 

“What are you doing for the weekend?” Morsov dodged the pencil and wiped evidence of his mirth from the corners of his eyes.

 

Max hummed noncommittally, offended by the music stuck in his head and Morsov's awareness of it.

 

“Got a date?”

 

Max wrinkled his nose and made another grunting noise in the negative.

 

“Practicing your caveman impersonation again?”

 

“Uhm-hm.”

 

“Spot on,” He mumbled; “You need a hobby, Rockatansky. Desperately.”

 

“’ve got one.”

 

“Oh? Karaoke perhaps?”

 

Max snarled.

 

Morsov clicked something on his computer and music started; “Come on, sing it for us, Ducky!”

 

“I hate you.”

 

"Turn that down!" Jim mumbled, leaned back in his chair, eyes closed in the heat. "It's too hot for this."

 

Morsov snorted… loudly but turned the music off.

 

“I cook... You asked my hobbies, there it is. I cook.”

 

“For who!”

 

“Myself.”

 

“That doesn’t count. If you didn’t do that you’d starve.”

 

“Could have takeaway… Or go to Hooters every night like Jim—“

 

“You leave me out of your squabbles, thank you—“ Jim said snatching an empty folder from Max's desk, he started fanning himself with it.

 

“I haven’t been to Hooters in years—Not since I started seeing Mary,” Morsov leaned forward, chin on his fists; “’s that redhead still work there—the one with the tongue piercing?”

 

Jim made a lurid noise and rolled his head on his shoulders, hips pushing a little lower in his seat; “Dianna!” He practically growled, “Yes, she does.”

 

Morsov snorted; “Should set her up with Max.”

 

“Hey—“ He protested but Jim was already sitting up straighter.

 

“That’s not a bad idea! You’d like her, Maxie—Does unusual things with that tongue of hers!”

 

“I’d rather not know how you came to that realization,” He hunched his shoulders and started quickly gathering his paperwork, came half out of his seat before he’d got it all shoved back into the folder.

 

“Aw, come on! It’ll be fun.”

 

“It’s Saturday.”

 

“Like you’re religious at all—“

 

“He can be when it suits him,” Jim said with an amused snort; “Works on a Saturday but won’t come to Hooters.”

 

“I’m a policeman… We had three people killed in shootings this week.”

 

“You're hopeless.”

 

“OI!” Came a voice from the main office; “Got an armed robbery—Goose, you and Morsov take it, leave Rockatansky alone.”

 

“What?” Travis’ feet hit the floor as he righted himself; “Boss, you never send me and Jim out—“

 

“Just go before he changes his mind,” Jim was already shifting to his feet, “Come on, we’ll take your car this time, your aircon actually works.”

 

Max lifted his chin as they left and went back to his typing.

 

His phone rattled on the desktop beside him and he peered down at it, saw the email notification, a gray banner with a skull on it.

 

**[Imperator Furiosa left a message for you in Wasteland.]**

 

He turned back to the computer screen, peered up at the clock on the wall, back to his paperwork.

 

The phone buzzed again. The same skull on a gray banner;

 

**[You have a friend waiting for you in Wasteland.]**

 

He hit print, pushed to his feet and peered into the chief’s office; “Report’s done… I’m going to—“ He motioned over his shoulder.

 

The Chief snorted; “That’s a first… Do you actually have a date?”

 

Max shook his head.

 

“Ah, alright... Be back here at six AM sharp!”

 

Max nodded and snatched up his phone on his way out the door.

 

Friend? He had a 'Friend' waiting for him?

 

He didn’t look. Although he could have, tried to restrain himself until he was home again and the door was locked. 

 

Slit’s door was open and he could hear music from inside, the loud guitar riffs of Wasteland, and the inane chatter of the kid’s friends.

 

There was a car in Slit’s parking space and the young man’s motor bike was pulled up onto his front lawn. Two more bikes were on the walk and a young man with a green Mohawk and sideburns was perched on the edge of the low garden fence drinking with a hand rolled cigarette behind his ear.

 

Max pointed at him as he passed, in warning, and the young man tucked the ‘cigarette’ into his shirt pocket, out of sight.

 

He slipped into his apartment without incident and locked the door. Double checked that his kitchen door was locked and grabbed his computer and charger on the way to his room. Shut that door too in hopes of deadening the noise coming from next door.

 

He changed clothes, propped himself up against the head of his bed and settled in.

 

The Wasteland Load screen was the same stretch of desert not far from Dag’s cave where he’d logged off the evening before after they’d returned from a salvage run in the mountains. No sign of any uninhabited places they could build a city, so he’d called it a night while the girls had stood around talking with the War Boy… Nuts? Nap? NUX!

 

There was a yellow banner in the bottom corner of his screen;

 

[You have a friend waiting for you in the game. Do you know this person?]

 

Imperator Furiosa.

 

Max hesitated, then clicked yes.

 

She had a big truck behind her when she appeared. Looked like a chopped and customized armored truck the likes of which he’d seen owned by banks.

 

Furiosa was under the hood. Didn’t bother interrupting her character when she noticed Max had logged on.

 

“A little birdie tells me that someone knows your name.”

 

Max rolled his eyes; ‘It’s a long story.’

 

“Yeah, and I heard all about it earlier.”

 

‘And?’

 

“And…” Her character finished what it was doing and jumped down. “I wanted to thank you.”

 

‘For what?’

 

“For not being an ass?” She chuckled; “Listen, Dag told me you guys are looking for uninhabited places? Well, I’m planning on going East next weekend as far as I can manage… The girls are already going, but I wanted to ask you… No obligation to protect them, because it’s only going to be people I trust, but because you might want to go.”

 

‘What’s in the east?’

 

“Lots of sand… There’s a barrier out there where the game map ends, but with this update coming there’s rumor of a map expansion… If the girls want to make their own city it’s the best chance they’ve got.”

 

‘And you want me to go too?’

 

“If you want… This thing can haul a three-thousand gallon fuel pod, so we can go pretty damned far. It’ll be like a road trip.”

 

He snorted; ‘Never been on one of those before.’

 

Her voice smiled; “You’ll love it… Or you’ll hate it. There is no middle ground.”

 

‘Sounds good.’

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0

 

0-0-0


End file.
